Chapter 3 - The Queen on the Board
Dominic’s face drained of every drop of color until he looked like a corpse dredged up from the East River. His mouth opened and closed like a landed fish, his hands hovering uselessly in the air as he stared down the dark, hollow tunnel of the gun barrel.
"F-Frankie! Sal!" Dominic choked out, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic squeak. "Kill her! Kill her right now!"
The two massive enforcers lunged forward instinctively, their hands flying toward their shoulder holsters.
They didn't make it two steps.
From the bed, with a speed born of pure adrenaline and lethal muscle memory, Vincent’s hands lashed out. He didn't need his legs to kill. With a violent yank, he grabbed the heavy brass traction bar hanging above his head, swung his massive upper torso forward, and kicked his dead legs upward with his hands, sweeping the heavy wooden bedside table directly into Sal’s shins.
Sal crashed hard onto the marble floor with a bone-crunching thud.
Before Frankie could clear his weapon, Tessa didn't hesitate. She didn't panic, she didn't scream—she pulled the trigger twice into the hardwood floor between Frankie's boots. The muffled thump-thump of the suppressor echoed like thunder in the enclosed space, sending splinters flying and filling the room with the sharp, acrid reek of cordite.
"Step back, boys," Tessa said, her voice completely steady, cold as river ice. "The safety is off, and my hand slips when loud men shout in my workspace."
Frankie froze, his hands hovering a millimeter above his grips. He looked from Tessa’s steady, unblinking eyes to Vincent, who was leaning over the edge of the mattress, his dark eyes burning with the resurrected fire of a warlord taking back his throne.
"You... you're working with him," Dominic stammered, trembling so violently his teeth clicked together. "You're a hitwoman—an assassin planted by the outfit—"
"I make twenty-five dollars an hour, Mr. Marchetti," Tessa replied coolly, keeping the gun barrel locked firmly between his eyes. "Assassin rates start at ten thousand a day. You severely underappreciate the cost of nursing labor in this city."
Vincent let out a low, gravelly laugh that vibrated across the room. He hauled his upper body back onto the pillows, resting his forearms across his chest, his gaze locking onto his former underboss with absolute, crushing contempt.
"You thought because my legs don't work, my brain stopped, Dom," Vincent said softly, each word landing like a hammer blow. "You thought you could walk into my house, disrespect my staff, and steal my life while I watched TV. Sal, get up off the floor before I let her put the next round through your kneecap."
Sal scrambled backward, groaning in pain as he clutched his bruised shins, scrambling behind Frankie like a whipped dog.
Vincent shifted his gaze to Dominic, who looked ready to wet his expensive suit.
"Take the folder," Vincent ordered, pointing a thick, scarred finger at the manila documents on the bed. "Take your thugs, take your broken shoes, and walk out of this house. If you ever cross my threshold again without an appointment, I won't send a nurse with a silencer. I’ll send a battalion, and I’ll make sure they leave you in the exact same alley where you bought that bullet for my spine."
Dominic didn't need to be told twice. He snatched the manila folder off the bed, clutching it to his chest like a shield, and backed out of the room faster than a retreating coward, his enforcers stumbling over each other to follow him out into the hallway.
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind them, sealing the suite once more.
Silence rushed back into the room, thick and heavy.
Vincent exhaled a long, slow breath, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion. He turned his head slowly on the pillow and looked at Tessa. She hadn't lowered the weapon. She kept the muzzle pointed safely toward the floorboards, her breathing completely regular, as if she hadn't just held the lives of three armed gangsters in the palm of her hand.
"Where did you learn to clear a room like that?" Vincent asked, genuine shock cutting through his hardened exterior.
Tessa clicked the safety back on with her thumb, walked over to the medical cart, and neatly slipped the SIG Sauer back into its hidden compartment beneath the sterile gauze pads.
"My father was a master sergeant in the Marine Corps," she said simply, picking up her cleaning towel as if nothing had happened. "And my ex-husband was a narcotics detective who forgot to lock his gun safe before he skipped town with our savings. You learn a few things when you live around dangerous men who think women are invisible."
Vincent stared at her, a profound wave of respect—something he hadn't felt for another human being in years—washing over him.
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"You're not just a nurse, Tessa," Vincent murmured.
"And you're not just a patient, Mr. Corvino," she replied, turning back to his bed to resume stretching his leg. "Now, lift your knee. We still have fifteen minutes of physical therapy left before lunch, and I refuse to let Dominic Marchetti ruin your range of motion."
