Chapter 4 - Baptism by Fire
Within ten minutes, the grand parlor transformed from a quiet family sitting room into a tactical command center.
Vargas materialized with a heavy medical kit, dropping it onto the coffee table before me. Miller was slumped on the sofa, clutching his bleeding side while two armed guards stood by the doors with assault rifles drawn.
“He took a round through the flank,” Miller grunted, his face pale with shock and blood loss. “Feels like a nine-millimeter. Went clean through.”
I didn't hesitate. Years of working double shifts on the city's roughest ambulance routes had burned away my panic response. I ripped open my blazer, dropped to my knees beside the sofa, and tore open Miller’s shirt.
“Get me gauze, pressure bandages, and a saline flush,” I ordered sharply, looking up at one of the guards.
The guard blinked, stunned by my tone, before looking at Adrian for approval.
“Do whatever she says,” Adrian commanded, standing by the window with his phone pressed to his ear, barking rapid-fire orders in Italian to someone on the other end.
I ignored them. My hands went to work with mechanical precision. I packed the exit wound with hemostatic gauze, slapped a chest seal over the entry point to prevent a pneumothorax, and wrapped a pressure bandage around his torso with tight, practiced efficiency.
“You’re going to live, big guy,” I muttered, checking his carotid pulse. “Just stop bleeding on the rug, or your boss is going to shoot you himself.”
Miller let out a weak, pained chuckle. “I like her, Boss.”
Adrian walked over, slipping his phone into his pocket. He looked down at my hands, stained with blood, and then up at my face. There was no trace of the cold monster who ruled the city; instead, his eyes burned with a dark, intense respect.
“Is he stable?” Adrian asked.
“For now,” I stood up, wiping my hands on a sterile towel. “He lost a pint of blood and he needs a proper surgical scrub, but the internal bleeding is controlled. If we move him to a public hospital, the cops—or Moretti’s hitmen—will finish the job. Do you have a trauma setup in this house?”
Adrian’s lips twitched into a sharp, approving smile. “Downstairs. In the basement bunker. Vargas, get him down to the medical suite.”
As the guards hoisted Miller up and carried him out of the room, Adrian stepped closer to me, catching my wrist before I could walk away.
“You didn't flinch,” he noted quietly, his thumb brushing lightly against my pulse point.
“I told you, Mr. Hargrove, I’m a paramedic,” I replied, trying to pull my hand back, though my feet refused to move. “I’ve pulled people out of burning cars and alleyway shootouts. A gunshot wound is just Tuesday afternoon in Chicago.”
“Adrian,” he corrected softly.
“What?”
“My name is Adrian,” he repeated, his gaze locking onto mine with a gravity that made my stomach flip. “If you’re going to patch up my men and live under my roof, Mr. Hargrove is entirely too formal.”
Before I could answer, the heavy double doors pushed open again, and Vargas stepped in, looking grave.
“Boss,” Vargas said. “Moretti’s people are making a move on our distribution hub on Archer Avenue. And... they’ve intercepted our communications. They know about the girl.”
Adrian’s expression darkened into a mask of pure fury. The temperature in the room plummeted.
“They know Nora is here?” Adrian asked, his voice dropping dangerously low.
“Yes, sir,” Vargas replied. “They sent a message to the outer gates. They want a meeting at midnight at the old slaughterhouse down by the Chicago River. And they specified that you bring the paramedic as a token of good faith.”
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the parlor.
I looked from Vargas to Adrian. My heart hammered against my ribs, but the fear I expected to feel was entirely replaced by a sudden, cold surge of anger.
“A token of good faith?” I repeated, my voice shaking with disbelief. “They want to use me as bait?”
Adrian turned his back to me, walking slowly toward the fireplace. He stared into the roaring flames for a long moment, his broad shoulders tense, his hands balled into iron fists.
May you like
When he turned back around, his eyes were completely devoid of mercy.
“Get your coat, Nora,” Adrian said quietly, pulling a heavy Sig Sauer pistol from his holster and checking the magazine with a sharp, metallic click. “We’re going to go teach Salvatore Moretti a lesson about manners.”
