Chapter 11 - The Intruder in the Shadows and the Ultimatum of Blood
The figure standing in the doorway of the isolation room was not one of Dominic’s enforcers, nor was it a Rinaldi scout looking for a quick kill.
It was Dr. Althaus.
The chief of vascular surgery looked like a ghost that had been dragged through a hedge backward.
His silk pajamas were stained with dried sweat, his hair was a wild nest of silver tufts, and his hands trembled so violently that he was holding a heavy silver scalpel handle like a talisman against an evil spirit.
“Dominic,” Althaus gasped, his voice thin, reeking of stale scotch and raw terror.
“They’re… they’re outside in the parking lot. The whole street is blocked off. Black sedans. No plates. They’ve got men on the roof.”
Dominic didn’t move an inch from Clara’s side.
His hand remained casually resting inside his coat, his fingers wrapped around the grip of his Beretta.
“Who’s out there, Althaus?” Dominic asked, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, freezing calm.
“Donato Rinaldi himself,” the surgeon whimpered, taking a shaky step forward before stopping as he caught the dark, lethal glint in Dominic’s eyes.
“He brought twenty men, Dominic. They’ve surrounded the entire perimeter of St. Jude’s. They told the night watchman to clear out or get buried in the basement. They want the boy, and they want you.”
Clara slowly stood up from the vinyl armchair, her exhaustion momentarily burning away in the sudden rush of cold, clinical clarity.
“This is a hospital,” she said, her voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel.
“There are forty other patients sleeping in the wards upstairs. Premature babies in the NICU. Elderly patients on life support in the east wing. You bring your gang war into this building, and you’re signing death warrants for people who have nothing to do with your docks or your ledgers.”
Dominic turned his head slowly, looking at Clara.
The hardness in his asphalt-colored eyes softened just a fraction, replaced by something dark, heavy, and resolute.
“I didn’t bring the war here, Clara,” Dominic said quietly.
“They followed the trail of blood because they thought we were weak. If I walk out that front door right now and surrender, Rinaldi won’t just kill me—he’ll execute Toby in this bed to send a message to every family in the city, and then he’ll burn this entire charity ward to the ground to wipe out the witnesses.”
Althaus let out a small, pathetic sob, dropping his scalpel onto the floor where it clattered loudly against the linoleum.
“We have to call the police!” the surgeon cried.
“The police are on Donato’s payroll, Althaus, and you know it as well as I do,” Clara said bitterly, the old cynicism returning with a vengeance.
“The cops in this city don’t answer calls at three in the morning unless there’s a payoff attached to the dispatch.”
Dominic reached out and grabbed his ruined suit jacket from the back of a chair, slipping his arms through the sleeves with a smooth, fluid motion that concealed a deadly readiness.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his platinum-cased phone, and tapped a single button on the screen.
“Vance,” Dominic spoke into the device as he strode toward the doorway.
“Boss.”
“Where are you?”
“Second-floor landing. We just tossed two of Rinaldi’s scouts down the stairwell. They’re currently groaning on the ground floor like broken accordions.”
“Gather the remaining four boys,” Dominic ordered, his voice echoing off the cinderblock walls.
“Bring every spare magazine you have. Donato is out front with twenty men. He wants a conversation.”
“You’re going out to talk to him?” Vance’s voice crackled over the speaker with a sharp note of disbelief.
“No,” Dominic said, a cold, humorless smile touching the corners of his lips.
May you like
“I’m going out to give him an education.”
Before Vance could reply, Dominic ended the call and turned back toward Clara, who was standing by the bed, checking Toby’s IV drip with automatic, unflinching precision.
