Chapter 2 - The Safehouse Doctor
The medical suite hidden beneath the floorboards of Dominic’s private townhouse on the north bluffs looked less like a clinic and more like a high-end trauma unit. The walls were lined with soundproofed acoustic panels, sterile stainless steel cabinets filled with surgical instruments, and advanced diagnostic monitors that hummed with a quiet, steady electrical pulse.
Dr. Aris Thorne—a former military surgeon whose license had been quietly revoked a decade ago after patching up too many syndicate soldiers without asking questions—worked with silent, practiced efficiency.
Dominic stood outside the glass partition of the examination room, his arms crossed over his chest, watching through the reinforced glass as Aris carefully cut away the remains of the woman’s torn shirt.
Marco walked up beside him, setting down a steaming cup of black coffee on the small metal table between them.
“We ran her face through the underground database,” Marco said quietly, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't carry through the secure intercom. “And through the municipal missing persons logs. Nothing. No matches on facial recognition, no driver’s license under that description in three states.”
“She knew who I was the second I gave her my last name,” Dominic noted, his eyes fixed on Aris, who was now applying a sterile antibiotic wash to the raw, abraded skin of her wrists.
“Could be a plant,” Marco suggested, his hand drifting instinctively toward his holster. “Caldwell knows we’ve been pressing his supply lines in the docks. He could have set that up as a trap knowing you’d check the old warehouse tonight.”
“If she was a plant, Marco, she wouldn't have looked like she was two days away from starving to death,” Dominic replied flatly. “Caldwell is ruthless, but he isn't stupid enough to leave a valuable asset chained to a pillar with infected rope burns just to bait a hook. She was disposable to him. Or forgotten.”
Inside the room, Aris stepped back, wiping his latex gloves, and pressed a button on the wall panel to open the sliding glass door.
Dominic stepped inside immediately, followed by Marco.
The woman was lying on the examination table, covered by a clean white hospital sheet up to her chest. An IV drip was tapped into her left forearm, pumping saline and vitamins into her dehydrated veins. Her face had been cleaned of dried blood, revealing high cheekbones and a sharp, elegant jawline that pain and bruising had temporarily masked.
Aris pulled off his gloves, tossing them into a biohazard bin.
“Physical trauma is extensive, but mostly superficial,” Aris reported, his voice clinical and detached. “Severe dehydration, malnutrition, second-degree friction burns on both wrists from industrial-grade restraints, and deep contusions across her torso and back consistent with blunt-force trauma from a baton or heavy belt. No internal bleeding, thankfully, and no signs of long-term systemic damage.”
“Will she recover?” Dominic asked.
“Given adequate rest, proper nutrition, and proper care, yes. Her body will heal. The psychological trauma, however, is another matter entirely,” Aris said, casting a sideways glance toward the table. “She hasn't spoken a single word since I brought her in. Her pulse spikes every time someone moves too fast near her.”
Dominic stepped closer to the examination table.
The woman’s good eye fluttered open. The swelling had gone down slightly under Aris’s cold compresses. She looked up at Dominic, her gaze no longer filled with the wild panic of the warehouse floor, but with a cold, hardened wariness.
“What do you want from me?” her voice was dry, raspy like sandpaper sliding over stone.
“Information,” Dominic said smoothly, pulling a metal stool closer to the table and sitting down. “Starting with your name.”
She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, the sterile lights reflecting off her dark brown eyes.
“Elena,” she finally whispered. “Elena Vance.”
Marco stiffened behind Dominic. The name didn't belong to a random drifter.
“Vance,” Dominic repeated slowly, testing the syllables on his tongue. “Any relation to Julian Vance? The regional director of the Helian Group out of Seattle?”
Elena’s head snapped back toward him, a flash of genuine shock crossing her battered features before she managed to mask it behind a wall of cold indifference.
“He was my uncle,” she said flatly. “Past tense. He died three years ago in a plane crash over the Cascades. Or so the newspapers claimed.”
Dominic leaned back on the stool, resting his chin on his knuckles. The pieces of a very dark, very complex puzzle were suddenly sliding into place.
The Helian Group was the parent syndicate financing Vincent Caldwell’s local narcotics and weapons distribution network in the city. For six months, Dominic had been quietly choking off their financial arteries, cutting their maritime supply lines, and seizing their warehouse assets one by one.
If Elena Vance was Julian Vance’s niece, she wasn't just a random captive.
She was the missing heir to a multi-billion-dollar criminal enterprise—and the key to every offshore account, shipping manifest, and encrypted ledger the Helian Group had hidden from federal authorities and rival syndicates alike.
“Caldwell didn't kidnap you just to torture someone,” Dominic realized out loud, his eyes narrowing. “He was trying to get you to sign over your uncle’s estate. Your shares in the Helian shipping conglomerate.”
Elena let out a short, bitter laugh that ended in a sharp wince of pain.
“Caldwell thinks he’s a king,” she whispered, turning her head on the pillow to look Dominic directly in the eye. “He spent three weeks trying to break my hands so I couldn't sign the transfer papers. But he doesn't know the half of it, Mr. Ashford.”
“Oh?” Dominic raised an eyebrow. “What don't I know?”
“Caldwell isn't working for himself,” Elena said, her voice dropping into a fierce, steady whisper that carried the weight of absolute conviction. “He’s working for someone inside your own inner circle. Someone who helped him stage the raid on my apartment six weeks ago. Someone who wants your docks, your syndicates, and your head on a silver platter.”
The room went dead silent.
Marco’s hand gripped his holster tightly, his eyes darting toward the hallway doors.
Dominic didn't flinch. His face remained carved from granite, but his eyes turned as cold and sharp as winter ice.
“Name names, Elena,” Dominic said softly.
May you like
Elena closed her eyes for a brief second, taking a slow, painful breath. When she opened them, there was no fear left in her gaze—only a cold, burning desire for survival and retribution.
“Not here,” she whispered. “Get me out of this basement, Mr. Ashford. And I’ll show you who’s really selling your empire out from under you.”
