Every Nurse Quit His Night Shift, but the Chubby One Found the Scar Nobody Was Supposed to See

The Grand Plaza Hotel sat like a monolithic glass fortress in the heart of downtown Chicago.

At 8:00 PM on Friday night, the top-floor ballroom was filled with sixty men in dark suits, heavy gold watches, and expensive leather shoes. These were the capos, the street bosses, the logistics managers, and the dirty lawyers who kept the Moretti crime syndicate running across three states.

At the head of a massive mahogany dining table stood Vincent Moretti.

Vincent was thirty-two, slim, impeccably groomed, with slicked-back dark hair and a gold pinky ring that sparkled beneath the crystal chandeliers. He wore a grey three-piece tailored suit and held a crystal glass of scotch in his right hand.

"Gentlemen," Vincent said, his voice amplified by the quiet respect of the room. He wiped a fake tear from the corner of his eye with a silk handkerchief. "It is with a heavy heart that I bring you this update regarding my beloved cousin, Gabriel."

A murmur ran through the room.

"As many of you know," Vincent continued, lowering his head solemnly, "Gabriel suffered severe complications following his tragic shooting three weeks ago. Despite the best efforts of Dr. Adrian Vale and our private medical team... his fever has reached a terminal point. He has fallen into a irreversible coma."

A tall, grey-haired capo near the front—Sal Rossi, Gabriel’s oldest lieutenant—stood up, his face grim. "Is there no hope, Vincent? Gabriel is strong. He's survived worse than a bullet."

"I am afraid not, Sal," Vincent said softly, shaking his head. "Dr. Vale informed me an hour ago that Gabriel’s brain activity is fading. Under section four of our family charter, when the head of the family is permanently incapacitated, leadership passes to the designated heir."

Vincent reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thick parchment document bearing Gabriel’s forged signature.

"I have the transfer documents here," Vincent declared, stepping toward the center of the stage. "I ask for your loyalty as we transition into a new era of prosperity—"

CLACK.

The heavy double oak doors at the back of the grand ballroom swung open with a sound like a gunshot.

The entire room turned.

Standing in the doorway was a heavy-duty, motorized chrome wheelchair. Sitting in it was Gabriel Moretti.

He wore a dark charcoal wool coat, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his dark hair was combed back smoothly. His skin was still somewhat pale, but his posture was absolute, rigid steel. His dark eyes swept across the room like a pair of loaded shotguns.

And standing directly behind the wheelchair, her broad hands resting firmly on the rubber grips, was Nora Bennett.

She wore a simple, dark green wool dress that fell gracefully past her knees, her thick curls pinned neatly at the back of her head. She looked completely out of place among the high-society mobsters—and she looked like she didn't give a damn.

The room erupted into absolute bedlam.

"Gabriel?!" Sal Rossi roared, his face breaking into a massive, disbelieving grin.

Vincent dropped his scotch glass. It shattered against the polished marble floor, sparkling amber liquor splashing across his expensive leather shoes.

"What... what is this?!" Vincent stuttered, his voice cracking violently. "Gabriel... you... you're supposed to be—"

"Dead?" Gabriel’s voice boomed through the ballroom, deep, resonant, and dripping with venom. "Is that what Dr. Vale told you, Vincent?"

Luca Ferraro stepped into the room behind Nora, holding Dr. Adrian Vale by the collar of his blood-stained white coat. The doctor’s face was bruised, his hands tied behind his back with heavy plastic zip-ties. Luca shoved the doctor forward onto his knees right in front of the head table.

"He... he woke up!" Dr. Vale screamed, his voice high and hysterical. "Vincent, I did what you asked! I put the catheter in his spine! The nurse... the nurse found it!"

Every eye in the room shifted from Dr. Vale to the broad, calm woman standing behind Gabriel’s chair.

Vincent’s face turned from pale white to a mottled, terrifying shade of crimson. He reached into his coat pocket, his hand darting toward his silver revolver.

"You traitorous bastard!" Vincent shrieked.

Before Vincent could even clear his holster, Nora stepped forward.

With a speed that shocked everyone in the room, she reached into her large leather medical bag, pulled out a heavy metal oxygen tank she had carried inside, and swung it in a smooth, devastating horizontal arc.

CLANG!

The solid steel cylinder struck Vincent full in the side of his face.

The force of the blow lifted the thirty-two-year-old mobster off his feet, sending him crashing across the mahogany table, scattering champagne glasses, ice buckets, and financial documents everywhere before he crumpled onto the floor in a senseless heap.

His gun clattered uselessly against the marble tiles, rolling right to Nora’s feet.

Silence fell over the ballroom.

Sixty hard-bitten, blood-soaked criminals stood frozen, staring in absolute, stunned silence at the chubby nurse holding an industrial oxygen tank like a baseball bat.

Nora adjusted her sleeves, set the oxygen tank back on the footrest of Gabriel’s wheelchair, and looked down at Vincent’s unconscious body.

"He was interrupting my patient," Nora said calmly to the room.

A long, silent second passed.

Then Sal Rossi began to laugh. It started as a low rumble in his chest and exploded into a roaring belly laugh that filled the high ceilings of the Plaza. Within seconds, half the capos in the room were cheering, clapping, and slamming their fists against the tables.

Gabriel turned his head slightly, looking up at Nora with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration that burned brighter than any flame.

"Nora," Gabriel murmured softly.

"Yes, Mr. Moretti?"