Chapter 9 - The Anatomy of a Man Who Knows Only War
Gabriel didn't look like a CEO or a refined gentleman anymore.
His jacket was torn, his knuckles were bloody, and his eyes held the terrifying, unhinged fury of an ancient warlord defending his cave.
He racked the slide of his handgun and stepped over the corpse.
In two long strides, he reached Sarah and Leo, pulling both of them into his arms in a crushing embrace.
“Did he touch you?” Gabriel demanded, his voice hoarse and ragged.
“Did they hit you?”
“No,” Sarah breathed, tears of sheer relief spilling down her cheeks.
“We’re okay. We’re okay, Gabriel.”
Gabriel looked down at his son.
Leo reached out and touched his father’s bloody cheek.
“Daddy saved us,” Leo whispered.
“Always,” Gabriel said, kissing the top of the boy’s head.
He handed Leo to Marco, who had just cleared the hallway with four heavily armed loyalists.
“Take Leo to the panic room,” Gabriel ordered Marco.
“Lock the blast door. If anyone touches that handle who isn’t me or Sarah, put a bullet through their skull.”
“Yes, Boss,” Marco said, carrying Leo down the reinforced corridor.
As soon as they turned the corner, Gabriel stumbled.
His shoulder slammed against the wall.
A sharp hiss of agony escaped through his clenched teeth.
Sarah’s eyes widened.
She looked down and gasped.
Soaked into the right side of Gabriel’s white shirt was a massive, expanding stain of crimson blood.
He had taken a rifle round through the flank while breaching his own estate to reach them.
“Gabriel! You’re shot!” Sarah cried, grabbing his arm to support his massive frame.
“It’s just flesh,” he grunted, though his face had gone dangerously pale.
“We have to clear the rest of the grounds.”
“You’re not clearing anything!” Sarah shouted, her voice laced with an authority that shocked even Gabriel.
“Sit down right now!”
She forced him into the master bedroom, pushed him onto the leather sofa, and ran into the adjoining master bathroom.
She grabbed the combat trauma kit Dr. Silva had left during her own recovery—gauze, antiseptic, clotting powder, and pressure bandages.
She rushed back and knelt between his knees.
Her hands were covered in his blood, but they were steady.
She ripped his shirt open, exposing the jagged hole where the round had torn through his oblique muscles.
“No exit wound,” she muttered, analyzing the injury with terrifying focus.
“The bullet is lodged against the hip bone. I have to pack it to stop the arterial bleed.”
Gabriel watched her.
Despite the blinding pain, a faint, proud smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“You’re bossing around the Don of New York, little maid,” he groaned through the agony.
Sarah poured the antiseptic directly into the wound.
Gabriel’s body arched, his hands gripping the leather cushions until the seams tore, but he didn't scream.
“I’m not a maid anymore,” Sarah whispered, tears streaming down her face as she packed the clotting gauze tightly into the wound and wrapped the pressure bandage around his broad torso.
“I am your wife. And you promised me you wouldn’t die.”
Gabriel reached out with his bloody hand, catching her chin and pulling her face toward his.
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“I won’t,” he whispered fiercely.
“Not until every single enemy who threatened you is six feet under the frozen earth.”
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