Chapter 3 - The Doctor's Diagnosis
Doctor Sarah Vance was a woman in her late fifties with silver hair pulled into a severe bun, wearing a tailored black coat over medical scrubs. She carried a heavy leather case that smelled of antiseptic and alcohol.
When she entered the master guest suite where Evelyn had been settled, she didn't ask questions about who Evelyn was or how she had come to be in the private penthouse of Manhattan's most feared operator. She had worked for Julian Reed for eight years, treating gunshot wounds, broken ribs, and silent trauma in high-end apartments across the tri-state area.
"Take off the dress, dear," Sarah said gently, setting her kit on the mahogany dresser. "I need to look at those wrists and your throat."
Evelyn hesitated, her fingers clutching the torn collar of her dress.
"Julian is outside," Sarah added smoothly. "Gabriel is at the elevator. There are no cameras in this wing. You are safer in this room than you have been in a very long time."
Slowly, Evelyn let the gray fabric fall away.
Sarah didn't gasp, but her jaw tightened until a small muscle twitched in her cheek. The damage was extensive. Across Evelyn's shoulder blades were long, dark purple contusions from a heavy leather belt. Her ribs were swollen on the left side, bruised blue and green. Her wrists were raw, skin rubbed down to the dermis where zip-ties or rope had held her down.
"Three broken ribs," Sarah diagnosed after ten minutes of careful palpation and a portable ultrasound scan. "Severe soft tissue damage across the neck and shoulders. Dehydration. Malnutrition. How long were you in the room under the warehouse?"
"Twelve days," Evelyn whispered, staring at the white wall opposite the bed. "They gave me water twice a day. Food when Vincent remembered."
"What did he want?"
"My father's ledgers," Evelyn said. Her voice was flat now, drained of all emotion. "My father was his head accountant for twenty years. Before he died of cancer last winter, he hid the master drive containing forty years of Moretti family financial history. Vincent thought he gave it to me."
"Did he?"
"Yes," Evelyn said. "I swallowed the key location before they broke down my apartment door."
Sarah stayed silent as she cleaned the raw skin on Evelyn's wrists with antibacterial salve, then wrapped them in thick, soft gauze. She applied a soothing cooling gel to her throat and taped her ribs tightly to restrict movement.
When she finished, she pulled a soft, oversized cashmere sweater and cotton sweatpants from a bag she had brought with her and laid them on the bed.
"Julian bought these for you an hour ago," Sarah said, zipping her kit closed. "He didn't know your size, so he bought three different sets. Sleep now. I've given you a mild sedative through the IV drip."
Outside the bedroom, Julian was standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass, looking out over the flickering grid of Manhattan.
Sarah stepped out, closing the heavy oak door quietly behind her.
"How is she?" Julian asked without turning.
"She's a survivor, but barely," Sarah replied, leaning against the wall. "Her ribs are cracked, her neck carries signs of manual strangulation, and she’s running on pure adrenaline and terror. If she had stayed in that basement another three days, she would have died of kidney failure."
"Did she tell you about the drive?"
"She mentioned her father," Sarah said carefully. "She has the keys to Vincent's life, Julian. If Vincent realizes she hasn't handed them over to you, he won't just try to get her back. He'll burn half of Midtown to kill her before she talks to the federal prosecutors."
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Julian turned around slowly. His eyes were entirely black in the dim light of the hallway.
"Let him try," Julian said. "I've been looking for an excuse to tear down Pier 42 for five years."
