Chapter 2 - The Command
Four hours later, the storm had passed, leaving behind a cold, grey morning fog over the Providence skyline.
Inside the private VIP recovery suite on the top floor of St. Anselm’s—which Silas’s men had effectively commandeered at gunpoint—the air was thick with silence.
The scar-faced lieutenant, whose name was Viktor, stood by the window, smoking a thin black cigarette in direct defiance of hospital regulations. Three other armed guards stood posted outside the heavy mahogany door.
On the bed, surrounded by heart monitors and IV bags, Silas Mercer stirred.
His fingers twitched against the crisp white sheets. His blue eyes snapped open, sharp and alert, instantly absorbing the layout of the room, the position of his guards, and the sunlight cutting through the blinds.
Viktor turned immediately, dropping his cigarette into a paper coffee cup. “Boss. You’re awake.”
Silas sat up slowly. The pain in his side flared like a hot iron, but his expression did not change. He ripped the heart monitor pads from his chest and swung his long legs over the side of the bed.
“Where is she?” Silas demanded. His voice was rough, like gravel ground under a heavy boot.
Viktor blinked, confused. “The doctor? We paid Dr. Price fifty thousand to keep his mouth shut about the gunshot wound. He’s signing a false police report right now claiming it was an industrial accident.”
“Not Price,” Silas growled, his eyes narrowing into deadly slits. “The nurse.”
Viktor hesitated. “She left, boss. Her shift ended at six in the morning. She went home.”
Silas stood up, pulling the IV needle from the back of his hand without flinching. A single drop of blood welled up on his skin, but he ignored it. He walked over to the window, looking down at the wet city streets below.
He could still feel the touch of her steady hands on his open flesh. In a world full of men who cowered at his name and doctors who trembled at the sight of blood, she had looked him in the eye, called him lucky, and saved his life without asking for a single thing in return.
More than that, she had used a specific suture knot—a reverse mattress stitch with a locking loop—that Silas had only ever seen used by one group of people: military surgeons attached to the elite special operations unit his late brother had served with five years ago.
“Find her,” Silas ordered quietly.
Viktor straightened his spine. “Boss, we have to deal with the Moretti syndicate. They were the ones who ambushed your car on Federal Hill. We need to counterstrike before—”
Silas turned around. The raw power radiating from his tall frame made the heavy room feel instantly small.
“I don’t give a damn about Moretti right now, Viktor,” Silas rasped, his voice cutting through the room like a razor blade. “Find her. Find out where she lives, who her family is, and why a night-shift ER nurse knows how to close a military trauma wound. Bring her profile to my desk by noon.”
Viktor bowed his head instantly. “Yes, Mr. Mercer.”
“And Viktor?” Silas added, his voice dropping into a register that sent a shiver down his lieutenant’s spine.
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“Sir?”
“If anyone else touches her, or if Moretti’s men even look in her direction... burn Federal Hill to the ground.”
