Chapter 6 - THE HEARTBEAT BEHIND THE STEEL
The sterile room went ice-cold.
Greco’s gun was pressed firmly into the base of Sloan’s skull.
Sloan didn't flinch.
He didn't lift his hands.
He stayed bent over Cora’s bedside, his fingers resting gently against his sister’s pulse point.
“You’re out of your jurisdiction, Elena,” Sloan said calmly.
His voice didn't contain an ounce of fear.
It sounded like a judge reading a routine eviction notice.
Elena stepped closer, her silk robe rustling softly.
Her manicured finger touched the edge of the heart monitor.
“My father didn't send me here to be your second-choice bride, Sloan,” she sneered. “Chicago wants the Boston ports. Victor Moretti promised us fifty percent of the docks if Cora died and the family fragmented.”
“Victor Moretti is an idiot,” Sloan murmured.
“Victor Moretti isn't the one with a gun to his head,” Elena replied sharply.
She glanced at Delphine.
Her gaze dripped with pure hatred.
“And you. The pathetic little waitress who thought she could run away from the Marchetti bloodline.”
Elena pulled a heavy silver syringe from her robe pocket.
“Potassium chloride,” Elena said. “One push into Cora’s IV line, and her heart stops forever. The coroner will call it cardiac arrest from the anaphylaxis. Then Greco puts two bullets in your pregnant belly, Delphine, and we frame the Moretti syndicate for the massacre.”
Del’s hand tightened protectively over her stomach.
Every muscle in her body screamed to fight.
She had two seconds.
She glanced at the Mayo stand beside her hip.
A tray of discarded medical instruments.
A twelve-millimeter curved surgical scalpel lay half-hidden beneath a bloody gauze pad.
“You won't make it to the front gates, Elena,” Del said, keeping her voice low, measured, drawing the blonde’s attention.
“Who’s going to stop us?” Elena laughed. “Your dead husband?”
Del didn't answer.
She grabbed the scalpel.
In a single, explosive arc, Del lunged forward.
She didn't aim for Greco.
She drove the scalpel straight through Elena’s silk robe, burying the blade two inches deep into the meat of Elena’s right thigh.
Elena shrieked—a piercing, animal scream of agony.
She collapsed to the floor, clawing at the blade sticking out of her leg.
The sudden scream broke Greco’s focus for a quarter of a second.
His eyes flicked down toward his mistress.
That quarter of a second was all Sloan Marchetti needed.
Sloan’s left elbow snapped back like a hydraulic piston.
The blow shattered Greco’s nose with a sickening crunch.
Greco stumbled, his gun discharging into the ceiling plaster.
Before the shooter could recover, Sloan grabbed Greco’s wrist, twisted the joint until the bones snapped, and drove the man’s skull directly into the edge of the steel instrument tray.
Greco hit the floor like an empty sack of flour.
He didn't move again.
Sloan stood over the two bodies, his chest heaving, his hands covered in fresh blood.
He kicked Greco’s gun across the room toward Delphine’s feet.
Then he reached down, grabbed Elena by the collar of her ruined robe, and dragged her toward the door.
“Sloan! Please!” Elena sobbed, blood pooling on the linoleum around her thigh. “My father will burn Boston to the ground!”
The door flew open.
Bishop and three armed Marchetti guards rushed in, weapons drawn.
Bishop took in the scene in one glance.
“Boss?”
“Put her in the basement cellar,” Sloan said, tossing Elena toward Bishop’s feet like garbage. “Call her father in Chicago. Tell him if another shipment leaves his rail yards without my seal, his daughter comes home in six different wooden boxes.”
“Understood, Mr. Marchetti.”
The guards dragged the weeping, bleeding woman down the hallway.
The infirmary went quiet again, save for the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator breathing for Cora.
Del stood by the gurney, her knees shaking so violently she had to lean against the wall for support.
Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps.
The adrenaline drain was brutal.
Dark spots danced at the edges of her vision.
Sloan turned back to her.
The fury vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, terrifying panic.
“Del?”
He caught her just as her knees gave out.
He swept her into his arms, lifting her off the floor before she hit the linoleum.
“I'm okay,” she whispered weakly. “Just... tired.”
“You’re pale as death,” Sloan growled, carrying her toward an examination table in the adjoining triage alcove.
He laid her down, propping her head up with a pillow.
His hands were trembling as he smoothed the damp auburn curls away from her forehead.
“You stabbed a syndicate heiress with a scalpel,” he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion she couldn't identify.
“She threatened my son,” Del whispered.
Sloan’s breath caught in his throat.
He looked down at her belly.
He reached out slowly, hesitating, asking for permission without speaking a word.
Del looked into his stormy gray eyes.
The arrogance was gone.
The ruthless boss was gone.
All that remained was a man staring at the miracle he had almost lost forever.
Del didn't pull away.
She took his scarred, calloused hand and pressed it gently against the center of her stomach.
Beneath his palm, the baby kicked.
Hard.
A firm, deliberate thump against his father's fingers.
Sloan’s eyes widened in profound, stunned wonder.
A tear slipped from his lower lid, cutting a clean track through the soot and dried blood on his cheek.
“He's strong,” Sloan whispered, his voice cracking like brittle glass.
“He takes after his father,” Del admitted softly.
Sloan leaned down.
He pressed his forehead against the fabric of her shirt, directly over the child's movement.
He stayed there for a long time, his shoulders trembling in the quiet room.
May you like
“I will burn the world before I let anyone hurt you again, Delphine,” he swore against her skin. “I swear it on my blood.”
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