Chapter 2 - The Impossible Wound
I pulled my stethoscope from my bag, checking Gabriel’s vitals while working quickly to stabilize him. His oxygen saturation was sitting at a pathetic eighty-six percent, far too low for a man of his size and physical history. I immediately adjusted the nasal cannula, increasing the flow of oxygen, but as the gas hit his system, Gabriel suddenly grimaced, his broad shoulders tensing as a sharp spasm of agony crossed his face. He let out a ragged breath and whispered, “My back.”
I paused, my hands hovering over his chest. “Your shoulder?” The medical file provided by his inner circle explicitly stated the gunshot wound from three weeks ago had grazed his left shoulder without hitting bone or vital organs.
“My back,” he repeated through clenched teeth, his voice trembling. “Lower.”
Luca frowned from the foot of the bed, his brow furrowing in confusion. “He’s complained about that ever since the clinic.”
I froze, my diagnostic instincts instantly kicking into overdrive. “What clinic?”
Luca hesitated, glancing at Gabriel as if waiting for permission before speaking. “The private surgical center downtown. Dr. Adrian Vale removed the bullet fragment.”
My stomach tightened into a hard, uncomfortable knot. Something was fundamentally wrong with that timeline. The official incident report stated the bullet had passed completely through tissue without leaving any retained metal or deep tissue trauma. If a fragment had indeed required surgical removal, it should have been documented in the initial trauma report, not dealt with in secret at a private, off-the-grid clinic weeks later. And then a crucial detail from my agency briefing resurfaced in my mind: Gabriel’s younger cousin, Vincent Moretti—the ambitious, smooth-talking heir apparent who managed the syndicate’s financial portfolios—had personally arranged and supervised that very clinic visit.
I looked down at Gabriel, whose breathing was becoming shallower by the second. “We need to look at the site. Roll him onto his side.”
Luca immediately stepped backward, his boots scraping against the hardwood floor. His face turned rigid. “No.”
I stared at him, baffled. “What do you mean, no? I need to check the surgical site for infection or hematoma.”
“Nobody touches his back,” Luca said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying an unyielding edge of absolute prohibition.
“Luca,” I said sharply, my patience wearing thin. “Your boss has a 103 fever, his lungs are filling with fluid, and he’s septic. If I don't inspect that wound, he’ll be dead before sunrise. Now help me roll him, or find another nurse who can perform miracles without looking at the patient.”
Even through the dense fog of the fever, I saw something in Luca’s eyes that chilled me to the bone—something disturbingly close to sheer terror. Neither man offered an explanation, but the unspoken rule of the Moretti household hung heavily in the air. Gritting my teeth, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Working carefully and methodically, I pulled the hospital gown down past Gabriel’s left shoulder, using my own strength to gently assist him as he rolled onto his right side.
The soft bedside lamp illuminated his pale, heavily muscled back.
And that was when I saw it.
My breath caught in my throat. There was not one surgical scar from the recent shooting.
There were two.
The first was the jagged, healing entry mark from the street shooting near the shoulder blade. But several inches below it sat a second, entirely distinct incision—freshly stitched, cleanly sliced, and deliberately hidden in a location where no bullet fragment from a shoulder wound could ever possibly migrate. It was a precise, deep incision right over the lower left flank, positioned directly above the renal artery and the left kidney.
The room seemed to tilt on its axis. My stomach dropped straight down into my shoes as the horrifying puzzle pieces clicked together in my mind.
“Luca,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner.
Luca stepped closer, his eyes dropping to Gabriel’s back. All the color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking as gray as a corpse. “What... what is that?”
“Someone didn't remove a bullet fragment,” I said, my voice shaking with cold fury as I looked up at the bodyguard. “Someone operated on him twice. And looking at the placement... this wasn't a rescue. This was a harvesting procedure, or a slow, calculated execution from the inside out.”
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Gabriel’s eyes slowly flickered open. The fever haze seemed to part for a fraction of a second, replaced by a dark, fathomless realization. He didn't scream, and he didn't curse. He simply let out a harsh, agonizing breath, and in a voice barely above a whisper, he spoke the one name that made every drop of blood in the penthouse run cold.
“Vincent.”
