Chapter 1 - The Penthouse of the Condemned
The cold Chicago wind rattled the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the Gold Coast penthouse, but inside, the air was thick, heavy, and practically suffocating with the stench of sickness and old sweat. Four nurses had already fled down the private elevator before midnight, terrified out of their wits by the legendary temper of the man sleeping—or rather, thrashing—in the massive king-sized bed across the room. The fifth nurse was currently shoving medical supplies into her canvas bag with trembling hands, casting nervous glances toward the hallway as if she expected a firing squad to block her exit.
“You have five minutes to leave before he wakes up,” the warning came from a broad, imposing man with a distinctly broken nose, a tailored black suit that cost more than my first car, and one large hand resting suspiciously beneath his jacket.
I didn't stop washing my hands at the wet bar sink. I turned off the faucet with a sharp twist, grabbed a paper towel, and wiped my fingers dry with deliberate slowness. At thirty-six, I had steady hands, dark hair pulled back into a practical knot, and more than enough years of high-stakes emergency room experience to stop caring whether nervous bodyguards thought I looked intimidating enough for the job. Life had taught me a long time ago that surviving chaotic, dangerous rooms didn't come from shrinking yourself to make everyone else comfortable; it came from speaking clearly, holding your ground, and refusing to blink.
“What’s his temperature?” I asked, tossing the paper towel into the bin.
The security chief, a man named Luca Ferraro whose reputation as a former amateur boxer preceded him in the underground circles of the city, blinked in mild surprise. “103.8.”
“How long?”
“Since this afternoon.”
“And nobody sent him to a proper hospital?”
Luca gave a harsh, humorless laugh that sounded like gravel grinding in a mixer. “You know who he is, right? Gabriel Moretti doesn't do public hospitals. He doesn't do public anything.”
“Right now, he isn't a crime lord,” I replied flatly, grabbing my medical bag and stepping further into the shadowed suite. “He’s a patient with a dangerous fever.”
Gabriel Moretti. The name alone carried enough weight to make local politicians sweat and rival syndicates lock their doors. He was thirty-nine, powerfully built, with scarred knuckles, sweat-soaked black hair clinging to his forehead, and the unmistakable, predatory presence of a man who was accustomed to absolute fear and absolute control. But right now, none of that mattered. His face was a sickly, pale gray, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid gasps that signaled his body was beginning to shut down.
Before I could reach the bedside, a low, animalistic growl vibrated from the sheets. Gabriel was awake.
Photographs and intelligence briefings had entirely failed to capture the sheer intensity of him. His eyes shot open, dark and bloodshot, and before I could blink, his massive hand lashed out with terrifying speed. His fingers locked around my wrist like a steel vise, squeezing hard enough to bruise the bone.
Luca instantly whipped his hand out from beneath his jacket, his fingers wrapping around the grip of a concealed firearm.
“Don’t,” I snapped, not breaking eye contact with the man on the bed.
Gabriel’s grip tightened, sending a sharp, nauseating wave of pain up my forearm. “Who sent you?” he rasped, his voice raw from dehydration and fever.
“My agency,” I answered steadily, keeping my tone completely level.
“You’re lying.”
“You’re delirious.”
His fingers dug deeper into my flesh, but I didn't flinch, nor did I try to yank my arm away—reactions that had probably sent the previous five nurses running for the hills. “Your pulse is sitting around 140,” I said, looking straight into his burning eyes, “your oxygen saturation is in the toilet, and your fever is destroying whatever judgment you have left.”
Gabriel stared at me, his chest heaving.
“You can crush my wrist,” I said quietly, “or you can give me ten minutes to figure out why you’re dying on this mattress.”
Something strange shifted in the dark depths of his gaze. It wasn't trust—men like Gabriel Moretti didn't know the meaning of the word. But it was curiosity. And more importantly, it was clarity breaking through the fever haze.
Slowly, his fingers uncoiled. He released my wrist.
May you like
Luca stared in absolute disbelief, his hand still frozen near his holster. “He... he usually doesn’t let go.”
“Everybody lets go eventually,” I said, rolling my bruised wrist as I stepped up to the side of the bed. “Gravity and biology are undefeated.”
