Chapter 5 - BLOOD ON THE SCALPEL
The rain over Manhattan was relentless.
At 4:15 AM, the glass-and-steel facade of the Sterling Orthopedic Institute was dark.
Only the penthouse office on the twelfth floor showed a sliver of light.
Dominic disabled the building's silent alarm with a military bypass kit.
We took the private service elevator straight to the top floor.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
Dr. Robert Sterling was stuffing stacks of hundred-dollar bills into an aluminium briefcase.
He was fifty-five, silver-haired, wearing an expensive cashmere overcoat.
A leather passport holder lay open on his desk.
When he heard the elevator chime, he turned around with a smile.
The smile vanished instantly.
His face turned the color of ashes.
"Damian..." Sterling stammered, stepping back until his thighs hit his mahogany desk.
"What... what are you doing here at this hour?"
I didn't answer.
I walked slowly across the plush wool carpet.
My footsteps were silent.
My overcoat dripped rainwater onto his imported rugs.
"I thought we had an appointment on Tuesday," Sterling rambled, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Claire’s new therapy braces just arrived from Germany—"
I reached across the desk, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him three inches off the floor.
His briefcase tumbled over, hundred-dollar bills scattering like dry leaves.
Sterling choked, clawing at my fingers with manicured hands.
"Three years, Robert," I whispered into his face.
"Three years of my baby crying."
"Three years of watching her drag her little leg."
"Damian... please... I can explain..." he wheezed, his eyes bulging with terror.
I pulled the amber prescription bottle from my pocket.
I emptied the crushed white powder into a glass of tap water sitting on his desk.
I forced the glass against his trembling lips.
"Drink it," I ordered.
"No! Please! It's toxic in high doses!" Sterling screamed, weeping like a broken child.
"You knew it was toxic," I snarled.
"Yet you put it in my daughter's milk every morning."
I shoved him down into his leather swivel chair.
Dominic stepped behind him, securing his wrists to the armrests with heavy zip-ties.
"Who ordered the poisoning, Robert?"
Sterling sobbed, tears cutting lines through the sweat on his cheeks.
"It wasn't Moretti!" Sterling blurted out, desperate to save his own skin.
"Moretti only bought the security codes tonight!"
I paused, my eyes narrowing into slits.
"If Moretti didn't order the medicine, who did?"
Sterling looked down, his body shaking uncontrollably.
"Marcus Vance," Sterling whispered.
My breath caught in my throat.
Marcus Vance was my second-in-command.
He was the man who had stood beside me at my wife's funeral.
He was the man who held Claire at her baptism.
"Marcus told me that if Claire grew up strong, you would never step down from the syndicate," Sterling cried.
"He wanted you broken, Damian. He wanted you distracted by a sick child so he could take over the Five Families."
The betrayal felt like a serrated blade twisting between my ribs.
My own brother in arms.
My closest confidant.
"Where is Marcus now?" I asked, my voice deadly and hollow.
"He's at the docks," Sterling wept.
"The 5:00 AM shipment from Marseille. He's seizing the weapons cache right now."
I turned to Dominic.
"Call the cleaners. Leave Dr. Sterling with his medicine."
I walked toward the elevator.
My phone rang.
It was the secure landline from my nursery.
I answered instantly.
"Hannah?"
Through the receiver came the deafening sound of an explosion, followed by Claire’s terrified screams.
"Damian!" Hannah screamed over the sound of crumbling concrete.
"The west wing just blew! Marcus Vance is inside the house!"
May you like
The line went dead.
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