Chapter 2 - THE MONSTER’S VIGILThe private medical suite on the top floor of Blackthorne House smelled of ozone, antiseptic, and fresh blood.
Four surgical specialists—the best money could buy in North America, pulled from Mount Sinai and Johns Hopkins via private helicopter—worked under intense LED surgical lamps. Outside the glass doors, four armed Mercer guards stood with automatic rifles held across their chests.
Dominic Mercer did not sit down.
He stood against the glass wall of the operating room, his tailored tuxedo jacket thrown aside, his white dress shirt soaked in Mara’s blood. His hands were stained dark red, the blood drying in the creases of his palms.
Viktor walked up behind him, stepping carefully around the bloodstains on the hardwood floor.
“The shooter is dead, Boss,” Viktor reported low. “Took two rounds from my men before he could turn the gun on himself. Fake credentials. We’re running his face through the federal databases now.”
Dominic didn't turn around. His gray eyes were locked on the thin, pale girl on the operating table. Tubes were hooked into her arms, a ventilator mask covered her mouth, and the heart monitor was emitting a erratic, frantic beat.
“Who was the guest in the gray suit?” Dominic asked. His voice was dangerously calm—the tone he used right before an execution.
Viktor blinked, checking his tablet. “Gray suit? There were dozens—”
“Section four, near the west balcony,” Dominic cut in, his voice dropping an octave. “He stared at her while she was bleeding. He recognized her. He called her Evelyn.”
Viktor’s posture straightened instantly. “I’ll check the security feeds immediately.”
“Find him,” Dominic commanded. “Lock down the city. No flights out of JFK or Newark. No boats leaving the harbor. If that man breathes air in New York, I want him in my basement before sunrise.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“And Viktor?”
“Sir?”
Dominic finally turned. His face was pale, his eyes burning with an ancient, terrible fire. “If she dies on that table, I’m going to burn this city to the ground.”
Viktor bowed his head and retreated quickly.
Inside the surgical suite, the main monitor suddenly issued a long, flat tone.
BEEEEEEEEEP.
“She’s going into cardiac arrest!” the lead surgeon shouted, his hands instantly positioning for chest compressions. “Charge the paddles! 200 Joules!”
Dominic slammed his fist against the reinforced glass wall, cracking the surface. “Don't you dare!” he roared. “Don't you dare touch her with those!”
He threw open the heavy doors of the surgical suite, pushing past two startled nurses. The doctors froze as the syndicate boss strode to the side of the operating table, grabbing Mara’s limp, ice-cold hand in his blood-stained fingers.
“Listen to me, Mara Ellis,” Dominic whispered fiercely, leaning down until his lips were inches from her pale ear. “You saved my son. You took bullets meant for my blood. You belong to Blackthorne House now. I don't give you permission to die.”
He squeezed her hand—hard, desperate, demanding.
For three agonizing seconds, the flat tone vibrated through the room.
Then, a sudden, ragged spike appeared on the monitor.
Beep... beep... beep...
The lead surgeon let out a ragged breath, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Her pulse is back. Stable... faint, but stable.”
Dominic didn't let go of her hand. He pulled a chair to the side of the operating bed, sat down, and rested his forehead against her knuckles.
In the doorway, six-year-old Caleb stood quietly, holding his blanket, his brown eyes wide with tears. He crept into the room, slid onto his father’s lap, and wrapped his small arms around Dominic’s neck.
“Is Mara staying, Daddy?” Caleb whispered.
May you like
Dominic wrapped his arm around his son, pulling him tight against his chest while his other hand remained locked around Mara’s fingers.
“Yes, Caleb,” Dominic said, his voice thick with a vow that echoed through the room like iron. “She’s staying. And nobody is ever going to hurt her again.”
