Chapter 3 - The Arrival of the Midnight Executioner and the Unlikely Ally
Dr. Althaus looked like a man who had been hauled straight out of a nightmare.
He was fifty-five years old, dressed in an expensive silk bathrobe thrown haphazardly over silk pajamas, his silver hair standing on end like a startled bird.
Behind him stood Vance, the thick-necked enforcer, holding Althaus by the collar of his robe with 1 hand as if the surgeon were nothing more than a wet sack of laundry.
“Let go of me, you lunatic!” Althaus shrieked, his voice cracking with sheer terror.
“I am the chief of vascular surgery at Mercy; you can’t just drag me out of my house at—”
“Shut your mouth, doc,” Vance growled, shoving the older man forward into the trauma bay with enough force to send him stumbling against the metal counter.
“The boss wants you working, not whining.”
Althaus caught himself against the counter, panting heavily, his eyes wide and panicked as he scanned the room.
He saw the blood on the floor.
He saw the guns tucked into the waistbands of the enforcers standing guard outside the glass.
Then he saw Dominic Gallo standing in the corner, pressing a bag of blood with the mechanical patience of a machine.
Althaus swallowed hard, his throat dry.
“Dominic,” the surgeon whispered, his voice trembling.
“I didn’t know… I was asleep… what happened?”
“My brother took a round to the gut,” Dominic said, his voice cold enough to freeze water.
“He’s bleeding from the mesenteric artery and his bowel is perforated. The nurse has him stabilized for the moment, but if you let him die on this table, I’m going to use your fingers to stitch his shroud.”
Althaus didn’t hesitate.
Years of operating in private clinics for men who lived outside the law had taught him one vital lesson: Dominic Gallo did not make hollow threats.
The surgeon stripped off his silk bathrobe, revealing rumpled cotton pajamas underneath, and threw himself at a wall-mounted sink to scrub his hands with antibacterial soap that foamed into a furious pink lather.
“Get me a gown!” Althaus barked at the empty doorway.
“Sterile gloves, size eight! And get that resident back in here to hold the retractors or I’ll have him fired before the sun comes up!”
Clara watched the frantic dance with a cold, detached eye.
She slowly withdrew her hand from Toby’s abdomen, pressing a fresh gauze pad deep into the wound to maintain the temporary seal while Althaus hurried over, his hands dripping with soapy water.
“Good work, Hayes,” Althaus muttered under his breath as he pushed past her to inspect the damage.
“If you hadn’t packed that aorta manually, he’d have been brain-dead before I hit the parking lot.”
“He’s still septic, Doctor,” Clara said, her voice steady.
“The peritoneal cavity is contaminated. We need broad-spectrum antibiotics running right now, and the suction is clogged with tissue fragments.”
“I’ll clear the suction,” Dominic said before Althaus could answer.
The mafia boss stepped forward, his massive frame eclipsing the bright surgical lights for a second as he reached out and cleared the plastic tubing with a single, firm tug, freeing the blockage without breaking a single sterile protocol that Clara had taught him by proxy.
Althaus stared at Dominic in sheer disbelief, but said nothing.
In this room, the hierarchy of St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital was suspended.
The only law that mattered was the one written in blood on the steel table.
“Scalpel,” Althaus demanded, holding out his hand.
Clara slapped the instrument into his palm with practiced efficiency.
The bright overhead lights hummed louder as the surgeon made the first long, decisive incision down the center of Toby’s abdomen, opening the boy up to the harsh reality of the underworld they all shared.
Blood welled up instantly around the blade.
May you like
“Suction,” Althaus barked.
Clara held the nozzle steady, guiding the tip into the dark, pooling cavity while Dominic continued to monitor the IV line with an intensity that rivaled any heart-lung machine in the city.
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