Chapter 7 - The Runaway Patient
My ribs still felt as though they were held together by duct tape and sheer willpower, but sitting in a sterile hospital bed while Dante hunted the man who tried to break me was entirely out of the question.
I had slipped past the sleepy morning nurse by distracting her with an urgent call about pharmaceutical inventory audits, punched my old executive override code into the nurse’s terminal to clear my discharge status, and grabbed my spare clothes from the room's secure locker.
Now, my rented compact sedan was idling in front of the St. Jude’s parking garage, my hands gripping the steering wheel while a sharp pain stabbed through my side every time I took a deep breath.
My left eye was still sporting a brilliant shade of purple-black, and the cervical collar was locked firmly around my neck, making shoulder checks an absolute agony.
"You're out of your mind, Harper," I muttered to myself, shaking my head as I pulled out into the heavy Chicago traffic.
If Dante found out I had snuck out, he would likely lock me inside a titanium vault for the rest of my natural life.
But as the personal secretary who had built half the corporate infrastructure Dante now commanded, I knew every backdoor, every hidden bank routing number, and every vulnerability Victor Vance was trying to exploit.
If Victor was liquidating Sterling & Cross assets from his secondary hideout on Michigan Avenue, he was using a legacy server system that only I had originally configured three years ago.
Which meant if anyone could lock him out of his own offshore accounts before federal warrants landed, it was me.
My phone buzzed loudly against the passenger seat, illuminating the dashboard with an incoming call from an unlisted, secure satellite number.
I didn't even need to look at the screen to know whose direct line it was.
I pressed answer and cleared my throat.
"If you're calling to tell me to turn around and go back to bed, the line is breaking up," I said smoothly, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"You bypassed three levels of hospital security, hijacked an administrative override code, and drove away with cracked ribs and a concussion," Dante’s voice came through the speaker, dangerously calm and dangerously quiet. "You have exactly thirty seconds to explain why I shouldn't have Marcus drag you back by your collar."
"Because Victor Vance is using the legacy encryption keys from our 2024 asset migration," I fired back, refusing to flinch. "Keys that I personally generated, which means he has a secondary backdoor hidden in the Michigan Avenue server farm that federal algorithms won't catch for at least two hours."
Silence stretched across the line for three agonizing seconds.
"Where are you?" Dante asked, his tone shifting instantly from personal anger to cold tactical command.
"Crossing over the Wells Street Bridge, heading south toward Michigan Avenue," I replied.
"Pull over at the intersection of Grand and Wabash," Dante ordered, leaving zero room for argument. "My vehicle will meet you there. You are not going into that building alone."
"Dante—"
"That wasn't a request, Harper."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
May you like
True to his word, exactly ninety seconds later, the unmistakable black-on-black profile of Dante’s Maybach pulled out from a side alley, blocking my lane with absolute precision.
The rear door swung open instantly, and Dante Moretti himself stepped out into the crisp morning air, walking toward my car with a stride that made every pedestrian on the sidewalk give him a wide berth.
