Chapter 2 - The House Call
Dr. Julian Evans arrived at the Russo estate in precisely nine minutes, carrying two heavy metallic equipment cases. A tall, graying man with sharp blue eyes and a solemn demeanor, he was the private physician trusted by the upper echelon of the syndicate for delicate, off-the-record medical emergencies.
Dominic stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows of the study, watching silently as Dr. Evans carefully cut away the packing tape and wooden paint stirrers from Claire’s arm. The moment the improvised splint was removed, a collective silence fell over the room.
Claire's forearm was severely swollen, painted in deep shades of purple, black, and anger-red. A distinct, sickening deviation in the alignment of the ulna bone was clearly visible beneath the skin.
"Compound fracture of the ulna, partial greenstick fracture of the radius," Dr. Evans diagnosed quietly, adjusting a local anesthetic needle. "She's lucky the skin wasn't punctured. Who set this?"
"I did," Claire whispered, her left hand clutching the armrest of the leather armchair. "My mother helped with the tape."
Dr. Evans looked up at her with a mix of professional surprise and genuine sympathy. "You managed to stay conscious through the night with an injury like this?"
"She came to work at six this morning," Dominic added from the window, his back still turned to them. "She spent two hours polishing hard walnut before I caught her."
The doctor shook his head, pressing the syringe into the nerve center near Claire's elbow. "You have an incredible pain threshold, young lady. But this needs proper reduction immediately. I'm going to administer a nerve block, align the bone manually, and put you in a full arm cast. It will take six weeks minimum to heal."
As the local anesthetic took effect, dulling the sharp, screaming agony into a heavy, numb coldness, Dominic finally turned around. He walked over to the desk, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a glass of water and two small pills.
"Drink this," he commanded softly, handing her the glass. "It will help with the shock."
Claire swallowed the medication obediently. Her strength was completely depleted; the adrenaline that had sustained her through the terrifying night and the long morning commute was finally wearing off, leaving her hollow and shivering.
While Dr. Evans set to work setting the bone—a sickening, grinding pressure that made Claire clench her eyes shut—Dominic remained standing beside her chair. He didn't speak, but his presence was an anchor of absolute stability in a world that had completely shattered around her.
"The splint was remarkably effective for an amateur attempt," Dr. Evans remarked as he wrapped fast-setting plaster bandages around her forearm. "It kept the bone fragments from shifting further and damaging the radial artery. Another few hours without proper medical care, however, and you might have suffered permanent nerve death."
"She won't suffer any permanent damage," Dominic stated flatly. It wasn't a hope; it was a decree.
Once the white plaster cast was smoothed and secured, Dr. Evans packed his equipment and handed Claire a bottle of prescription pain medication. "Take one every six hours with food. Absolute rest for the next three days. No heavy lifting, no work."
"She isn't working for the next six weeks," Dominic corrected, looking at the doctor. "Thank you, Julian. Marco will settle your fee."
Dr. Evans nodded respectfully, offered Claire a gentle nod of encouragement, and quietly exited the room.
The study fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Outside, dark rain clouds had finally rolled over the Main Line hills, tapping lightly against the grand glass panes. Claire looked down at her heavy white cast, feeling detached from her own body.
"Mr. Russo," she began, her voice hoarse. "I... I need to go home. My mother is alone. She has dementia, and after what happened last night—"
"Your mother is currently being transported to the St. Jude Private Residence in Bryn Mawr," Dominic said smoothly, walking over to his desk and leaning against its heavy edge.
Claire gasped, trying to sit up straight despite her dizziness. "What? No, I can't afford St. Jude! That facility costs thousands a month! I had a deposit saved for a local center, but my brother took—"
"It is already taken care of," Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping into that quiet, absolute tone that allowed no argument. "A private suite has been prepared for her. She will have twenty-four-hour specialized nursing care, private security at the entrance, and a full medical staff. She arrived twenty minutes ago. My personal driver escorted her."
Claire stared at him, overwhelmed by a tidal wave of conflicting emotions—relief, confusion, and overwhelming panic. "Why are you doing this? I'm just your housekeeper."
Dominic looked down at her, his dark eyes unreadable. "You have taken care of this house for three years, Claire. You have walked through these doors every day, worked honestly, and asked for nothing. You are under my roof. That makes you under my protection."
May you like
He paused, stepping closer until he stood directly in front of her chair.
"And when someone under my protection is brutalized by scum who use my name to justify their filth," Dominic added softly, his tone dripping with lethal intent, "it is not just a crime. It is an insult to me."
