Chapter 7 - The Ledger of Retribution
The underground trauma clinic beneath the Brooklyn warehouse smelled of iodine, steel, and impending war.
Dominic lay on the operating table, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth threatened to crack, refusing general anesthesia while the syndicate surgeon picked buckshot out of his back and shoulder. He took only a leather strap between his teeth and local numbing agents.
He needed his mind sharp.
Gemma stood beside the table, her emerald gown ruined, her bare arms covered in his dried blood. She had refused to leave the room. Every time the surgeon’s scalpel dug deep, Gemma’s fingers tightened around Dominic’s uninjured left hand, and Dominic squeezed back with enough force to bruise her knuckles.
They were tethered together by pain and defiance.
“All pellets removed,” the surgeon finally announced, wiping sweat from his forehead. “He lost two units of blood. The muscle is torn, but the lung wasn't punctured. By all medical logic, he should be in an induced coma.”
“Get out,” Dominic growled, spitting the leather strap from his mouth as the surgeon finished bandaging his torso in tight, white medical wraps.
The surgeon and the nurses vanished, leaving only Dante, Dominic, and Gemma in the dimly lit recovery bay.
Dominic sat up slowly, his face pale, sweat glistening on his broad chest. Every movement was agony, but his eyes were blazing with a cold, terrifying clarity.
“The flash drive,” Dominic ordered.
Gemma stepped forward, pulling the small metal drive from her evening bag. “I already had Dante’s tech team upload it to the Commission’s private servers while you were on the table. The elders have seen everything, Dominic. They know Sal stole the four million. They know he was selling shipping manifests to the federal task force. And they know Anthony Moretti authorized the hit inside the Plaza.”
Dante stepped forward, his eyes grim. “The Commission declared an open season on Sal and Moretti twenty minutes ago. The peace is officially broken. We have full authorization to eradicate them.”
“Where is Sal?” Dominic asked, his voice a lethal whisper.
“He ran back to his fortress at the East Docks,” Dante said. “He knows he’s a dead man walking. He’s barricaded himself inside Warehouse Nine with twenty Moretti mercenaries, burning his paperwork and trying to negotiate an emergency evacuation helicopter with his federal handlers.”
Dominic swung his legs over the side of the table. Pain ripped through his shoulder, but he didn't even blink. He reached for a fresh black tactical shirt hanging from the locker.
“Mr. Falcone,” Gemma said, her voice trembling slightly. “You can’t go into a firefight. You just had surgery twenty minutes ago!”
Dominic paused. He turned to look at her. In the harsh fluorescent light of the clinic, she looked wild, fierce, and utterly devoted. The delicate secretary who had fallen asleep on his shoulder had disappeared, replaced by a woman who had stood in a spray of blood and held an empire together while its king was down.
He walked over to her, his uninjured hand cupping the back of her head, pulling her forehead against his chest.
“He tried to kill you, Gemma,” Dominic said softly, the words vibrating against her ear. “He brought weapons into a room with you. He made you bleed my blood onto your dress.”
He pulled back, his slate eyes boring into hers.
May you like
“No one threatens my empire,” Dominic whispered, his thumb caressing her jaw. “And no one touches the woman who holds my heart and lives to see another sunrise. Dante, prep the convoy. We are going to the docks.”
***
