Chapter 2 - The Pathology of a Parasite
The private medical clinic on 8th Street was tucked behind a brownstone facade, marked only by a small brass plaque that read S. Evans, MD. To the casual observer, it looked like a quiet, high-end family practice. In reality, it was the primary trauma ward for the Malone organization—a place where bullet wounds were extracted without police reports and where the family's inner circle received treatment far from the prying eyes of federal investigators.
Dr. Richard Evans, an elegant man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses, was already waiting in the private examination room when Mikhail carried Sarah through the back entrance. Gracie followed closely behind, her purple backpack clutched tightly against her chest, her eyes wide but remarkably dry as she took in the gleaming stainless steel and the quiet hum of medical machinery.
"Lay her here, Mikhail," Dr. Evans directed, his fingers already gently checking Sarah’s pulse. He glanced at Connor, who stood by the doorway with his overcoat still on, his hands deep in his pockets. "Connor, what are we looking at?"
"Malnutrition, extreme cold exposure, and chronic thoracic distress," Connor said, his voice flat. "She's been working double shifts at a laundromat on Fifth Street. She hasn't eaten a proper meal in months, Richard. I want a full panel. I want her stabilized, and I want her safe."
"I can do that," Dr. Evans said, gently placing a warm blanket over Sarah’s shivering shoulders. He looked down at Gracie, who had parked herself on a small stool in the corner, her grocery bag held firmly on her lap. "And who is this young lady?"
"This is Gracie," Connor said. He walked over to the stool and knelt down so he was at eye level with the child. "Gracie, Dr. Evans is going to make your mom feel much better. But it’s going to take a little bit of time. I need to go take care of some business. I want you to stay here with Mikhail. He’s going to order you whatever you want to eat. If you want pizza, burgers, or twenty more bananas, you just tell him. Do you trust me?"
Gracie looked at him with those deep, ancient hazel eyes. She didn't look like a six-year-old child; she looked like a survivor who had spent her entire life expecting the other shoe to drop.
"You paid for the bananas," she said softly. "You didn't have to."
"I did have to," Connor said. "I just didn't know it until today. Stay here. Keep your mom warm."
He stood up, his joints popping slightly in the quiet room. He signaled to Mikhail, who stepped out into the hallway with him.
"Watch the door," Connor commanded. "If anyone so much as looks at this building with the wrong intent, you end them. Do you understand me, Mikhail? I don't care if it's the police, the feds, or the devil himself. Nobody enters this room."
"With my life, Boss," Mikhail said, his hand resting instinctively on the lapel of his jacket where his heavy-caliber sidearm was concealed. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to have a conversation with Daniel Webb," Connor said. "He’s currently running an unlicensed sports betting parlor out of the basement of the old warehouse on 12th. He thinks he's a businessman. I think it's time he learned about overhead."
Connor walked out of the clinic, the cold air hitting him like a physical slap as he stepped back onto 8th Street. He didn't take the SUV. He wanted to walk. He wanted the cold to settle deep into his bones so that when he finally saw Daniel Webb, there would be no warmth left in him to offer mercy.
Four years ago, Connor had been weak. He had been mourning Marcus, dealing with a federal grand jury investigation, and trying to keep the rival families from carving up his northern territory. He had outsourced his responsibility. He had accepted a signature on a trust document because it was convenient, because it allowed him to cross one more item off his list of obligations.
I trusted a rat to guard the grain, Connor thought, his leather-gloved fists clenching in his pockets. And now Marcus’s daughter is counting pennies while the rat gets fat.
As he approached the industrial district near the river, the streetlights began to flicker on, casting long, skeletal shadows across the rusted corrugated metal of the abandoned warehouses. The scent of ozone, stagnant salt water, and rotting wood hung heavy in the air.
The warehouse on 12th Street was a massive, three-story brick monolith that had once housed a shipping logistics firm. Now, its windows were boarded up with thick plywood, and a single yellow bulb burned over a heavy steel door at the side of the loading dock.
Connor didn't knock. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy steel brass knuckle set—an old relic from his enforcement days that he still kept for sentimental reasons—and slipped it over his fingers. Then, he raised his heavy boot and kicked the lock mechanism on the steel door with a force that sheared the mounting screws directly out of the rotted frame.
The door flew open with a deafening clang, echoing through the cavernous, concrete interior.
Inside, the basement stairs led down to a brightly lit, smoky room where the low murmur of men shouting over horse races and football lines immediately went dead silent.
"Who the hell is that?" a voice shouted from the darkness below.
May you like
Connor Malone descended the stairs slowly, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the cold concrete steps.
"It's the landlord," Connor said. "And the rent is four years overdue."
