Chapter 5 - Blood on the Linoleum
By dawn, the mansion was silent again.
The air carried the acrid scent of bleach and fire extinguishers as Leo’s men scrubbed the hallways. Carmine’s attack had failed, leaving eight assassin bodies to be disposed of in the deep pine woods.
Inside the master bedroom, I was on my knees beside Liam’s bed, surgical scissors in hand, re-stitching his abdominal incision under the harsh glare of a medical spotlight.
“No local anesthetic,” Liam had ordered when I told him I needed to repair the torn muscle layer. “I need my head clear.”
He sat propped against the headboard, a leather belt clamped between his back teeth, his fingers digging into the wooden frame so hard the varnish cracked beneath his nails.
Sweat poured off his forehead, dripping onto his chest as I pulled the black nylon suture through his skin. Every movement of the needle was torture, but he did not make a single sound.
“Last stitch,” I whispered, my own hands trembling slightly from adrenaline. I tied off the knot, cut the thread, and immediately applied a sterile pressure dressing over the fresh closure.
Liam spat the leather belt out onto the sheets, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat.
“You’re insane,” I breathed, wiping his forehead with a cool cloth. “You should be under general anesthesia in a hospital operating room.”
Liam caught my hand, holding the cool cloth against his cheek, his breathing gradually slowing down. “Hospitals are death traps. Here, I control who enters.”
“You couldn't control last night.”
“I found the mole,” he said coldly. “Carmine won't get a second chance.”
I looked down at our joined hands. The boundary between nurse and patient had dissolved completely in the blood and gunfire of the night. He was a dangerous man—a king in a world of monsters—but when he looked at me, I didn't feel afraid. I felt seen.
“Your leg pins didn't shift during the fight,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back to clinical safety. “The fixator held.”
“Which means I can sit in a wheelchair,” Liam said.
“Absolutely not. You need two weeks of bed rest—”
“I have a commission meeting in Chicago on Thursday,” he interrupted, his voice unyielding. “If I am not sitting at that table, Carmine takes control of the shipping terminals. If he takes the terminals, my family falls.”
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“You’ll hemorrhage again!”
“Then fix me again,” he demanded, leaning closer until his lips almost brushed mine. “You said you needed me alive until Friday, Clara. Hold up your end of the deal, and I’ll hold up mine.”
