Chapter 4 - THE DOCTOR'S KNIFE
Dr. Chen arrived thirty minutes later through the service tunnel.
He was a slender, middle-aged man with sharp gray eyes and cold, steady hands.
Beside him walked Dr. Paulsen, the chief of orthopedic trauma at Northwestern Memorial.
They carried two heavy aluminum cases.
Gabriel stood beside the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, watching every breath Clare took.
He had wrapped her in a thick cashmere blanket.
He had placed a hot water bottle against her uninjured hip.
He had not left her side for a single second.
“Mrs. Russo,” Dr. Chen said, kneeling beside the sofa.
He set a sterile tray on the coffee table.
“This will be unpleasant.”
Clare nodded silently.
Her jaw was clenched, beads of cold sweat dotting her hairline.
Dr. Paulsen produced a specialized cast saw, its round blade humming to life with a high-pitched whine.
The vibrating teeth bit into the dirty fiberglass.
Dust rose in a pale cloud, smelling of chalk and dry resin.
Dr. Paulsen worked with surgical care, splitting the hard shell down both sides.
He pulled the plaster halves apart.
Gabriel stepped forward, his knuckles turning white at his sides.
Beneath the cast, Clare’s left arm was grotesque.
The skin was mottled with deep purple, yellow, and black bruising from the wrist to the mid-bicep.
The radius bone was visibly displaced, creating an unnatural angle along her outer forearm.
Dr. Paulsen gently probed the tissue with gloved fingers.
Clare bit her lower lip so hard blood welled on her skin, but she did not cry out.
“Double fracture,” Dr. Paulsen announced grimly.
“Radius and ulna both snapped clean through.”
“Who set this?” Gabriel demanded, his voice thick with murder.
“A street medic,” Dr. Chen answered, inspecting the alignment.
“Done hastily in an alley or a backroom.”
“No pins.”
“No traction.”
Dr. Paulsen looked up at Gabriel.
“Mr. Russo, if she had kept this cast on for another forty-eight hours, the bone would have fused incorrectly.”
“She would have lost the permanent use of her left hand.”
Gabriel looked at Clare.
Her eyes were glassy with agony, her face gray as parchment.
“Why didn’t you go to Northwestern?” Gabriel asked her, his voice cracking with an emotion none of the doctors had ever heard from him.
“Why a street clinic, Clare?”
Clare looked at the ceiling moldings.
“Because Northwestern’s trauma ward is monitored by your captains,” she whispered.
“Leo has four men on payroll at the triage desk.”
“If I showed up with a broken arm three hours after the shipyard ambush,”
“Leo would have known I was there.”
“He would have killed me in the recovery room.”
The two physicians froze.
Dr. Chen lowered his instruments, his gaze dropping to the floor.
In Chicago, when a mafia boss discovered a traitor, witnesses did not live long enough to testify.
Gabriel stepped to the head of the sofa.
He leaned down and rested his hand against the side of Clare’s neck.
His thumb found her rapid, fluttering pulse.
“Chen,” Gabriel said calmly.
“Yes, Mr. Russo?”
“Reset the bone.”
“Now?” Dr. Paulsen asked, startled.
“We don't have general anesthesia here. She needs a surgical suite—”
“We are not moving her to a hospital,” Gabriel commanded.
“Do it here.”
“Use local nerve blocks.”
“And if she screams, I will take your hands.”
Dr. Paulsen swallowed hard and opened his medical kit.
He drew a long, slender needle filled with clear lidocaine.
He injected the nerve cluster at her elbow.
Clare gasped, her body arching off the leather cushions as the medication burned into her inflamed tissue.
Gabriel sat on the edge of the sofa beside her hip.
He took her uninjured right hand and laced his fingers through hers.
“Squeeze my hand, Clare,” he commanded softly.
“As hard as you need to.”
She gripped his palm.
Her fingernails dug through his skin until blood welled beneath his gold wedding band.
Gabriel did not pull away.
He didn't even flinch.
He used his other hand to brush the wet hair from her forehead, whispering ancient Sicilian prayers into her ear.
Dr. Paulsen took her wrist and elbow.
“On three,” the surgeon warned.
“One.”
“Two—”
CRACK.
A wet, sickening sound echoed through the high-ceilinged study.
The bones snapped back into alignment.
Clare let out a strangled, muffled shriek against Gabriel’s chest.
Her vision flashed white.
Her forehead slammed into his shoulder, her breath hot and ragged against his throat.
Then the darkness took her.
Her fingers went limp in Gabriel’s hand.
She collapsed against his chest, unconscious from the sheer shock of the reset.
Dr. Paulsen worked rapidly, applying a lightweight, modern synthetic splint and sterile compression wraps.
“The alignment is good,” Dr. Paulsen panted, wiping sweat from his eyes.
“She will need orthopedic screws in three weeks, but the danger of permanent nerve damage is averted.”
Gabriel did not answer.
He sat on the sofa, cradling his unconscious wife against his chest.
Her small, bruised face was tucked into the curve of his neck.
She felt weightless.
Fragile.
Like a sparrow that had flown through a hail of shrapnel.
The study door clicked open.
Marcus Bell stepped inside, his submachine gun slung across his chest.
His boots left wet marks on the rug.
“Boss,” Marcus whispered, keeping his eyes averted from Clare.
“Speak,” Gabriel growled, not moving an inch.
“Leo just left the east gates in his armored Suburban.”
“He didn't go to the North Side garages.”
“Where did he go?”
Marcus pulled a GPS tracker from his pocket.
“He is heading toward the Calumet River industrial basin.”
“Meeting with Carlo Moretti’s lieutenants at the old grain silos.”
Gabriel looked down at Clare’s sleeping face.
He smoothed a dark lock of hair behind her ear.
“Marcus.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Call the twelve capos to the estate.”
“Tell them we hold council at four in the morning.”
May you like
“And tell them,” Gabriel added, his voice cold as the grave,
“to bring their executioner’s coats.”
