Chapter 3 - The Shadow Over the Ward
For three days, Sheree tried to pretend that Thursday morning had never happened.
She scrubbed the faint iron stains from her kitchen floorboards, threw away the bloody towels, and worked three consecutive double shifts at County General Hospital. But every time she walked past the hospital’s alley entrance, her stomach tightened.
On Sunday night at 11:00 PM, Sheree finished her shift, pulled her heavy winter coat over her scrubs, and walked out through the ER glass doors into the biting Chicago wind.
The street was unusually quiet.
As she reached the corner of Harrison Street, a black SUV idling by the curb turned its high beams on. The rear door swung open.
A man stepped out into the cold—not Marco, but a slick, rat-faced man in a flashy leather jacket, accompanied by three rough-looking enforcers.
"Sheree Murphy?" the rat-faced man asked, stepping into her path, blocking the sidewalk.
Sheree froze, her hand reaching inside her coat pocket where her phone sat. "Who are you?"
"I'm Julian Moretti’s regional manager," the man sneered, taking a tooth-pick out of his mouth. "Four nights ago, Nicholas Vane bled out somewhere near your apartment building. My boys tracked the blood trail to your alley dumpster. Then it vanished."
Sheree kept her voice completely deadpan. "I'm a trauma nurse. I see blood every day. Move out of my way."
The man stepped closer, grabbing her upper arm with a painful, bruising grip. "Don't play stupid, sweetheart. Vane walked out of your building the next morning looking alive and well. You stitched him up. You saved the one man we needed dead."
"Let go of me!" Sheree snapped, trying to wrench her arm free.
"You're coming with us," the man growled, dragging her toward the open SUV door. "Julian wants to know where Vane is hiding, and I think you're going to tell us every single word he said to you."
Click.
Before the man could drag Sheree another inch, the dark night air was shattered by the sharp, metallic rack of a heavy shotgun slide.
From the shadows of the closed brick bakery across the street, six men in tactical coats emerged like ghosts.
Walking at the center of the group, wearing a long charcoal coat over a dark suit, was Nicholas Vane.
He looked completely recovered. His face was cold, sharp, and radiating a terrifying, absolute lethal power that made the street feel ten degrees colder.
"Julian’s men always did have terrible manners," Nicholas said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm as he walked into the streetlamp's golden light.
The rat-faced man gasped, dropping Sheree’s arm instantly, reaching frantically for his waistband. "Vane—!"
BANG!
A single suppressed gunshot echoed off the brick buildings. The rat-faced man collapsed onto the slushy pavement, clutching his shattered kneecap, screaming in agony.
Nicholas didn't even look at the screaming man on the ground. He stepped straight over him, stopping inches from Sheree.
He reached out, his gloved hand gently catching her trembling chin, lifting her face so he could inspect her cheek. His thumb brushed over the faint red mark where the man had grabbed her.
"Did he hurt you, Sheree?" Nicholas asked softly. His voice was quiet, but the dark, murderous storm raging in his eyes made her breath catch in her throat.
"I... I'm fine," Sheree whispered, her chest heaving as adrenaline surged through her veins.
Nicholas turned his dark eyes toward Marco, who stood behind him holding a silenced pistol.
"Take care of Julian’s garbage," Nicholas ordered flatly. "And tell Julian that if his men step within five miles of this hospital again, I will personally burn his docks to the ground."
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Nicholas turned back to Sheree, sweeping his heavy cashmere coat around her shoulders, gently guiding her toward his armored limousine parked at the curb.
"Come, Sheree," Nicholas murmured, his arm wrapping securely around her waist, supporting her trembling frame. "It's time you saw where your patient lives."
