Chapter 4 - The Wolves at the Door
Three minutes later, a heavy-set man in a bespoke three-piece suit walked into Room 412. He carried a leather attaché case and moved with the silent, predatory grace of a shark in a tailored vest.
Victor Rossi. Dante’s right-hand man and the chief legal counsel for the Moretti enterprise.
"Boss," Victor said, nodding respectfully to Dante before his cold, calculating eyes flicked toward me. "Dr. Callahan. I'm glad to see you're keeping him alive."
"Cut the charm, Victor," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "Why are your men tearing up my hospital?"
"They aren't tearing it up, Doctor. They're securing it," Victor replied smoothly, setting his briefcase down on the bedside table. He popped the latches with a double click. "Word travels fast in Seattle. Someone tried to take out the boss tonight. A rival faction from the docks—the Petrovic crew. They found out Dante was brought here, and they're sending a clean-up squad."
My stomach plummeted. "A clean-up squad? This is a hospital! There are hundreds of innocent patients, children, and staff members in this building!"
"Which is precisely why I'm moving him," Dante said, trying to push himself up on his elbows. A sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips, and he fell back against the pillows, clutching his side.
"You're not going anywhere, Dante," I said instinctively, stepping forward to check his IV drip. "Your stitches will rupture. You have internal bleeding."
"If I stay here, the Petrovic crew will put a bullet through my head and yours," Dante said, his voice fierce and unyielding. He looked up at Victor. "Get the transport ready. We're moving to the safehouse in Mercer Island."
"Wait," I interrupted, panic finally breaking through my professional composure. "Mercer Island? Dante, my apartment is five miles from here! Mia is sleeping there with my neighbor!"
Dante froze.
The color drained from his face a second time tonight, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror.
"Who knows where you live?" Dante asked, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper.
"No one," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Just Kate. She’s our neighbor. She babysits—"
"If the Petrovics tracked me to this hospital," Dante interrupted, his mind racing with lethal calculations, "they’ve already tapped police scanners. They know what ambulance brought me in. They know my address from my old tax records. And if they want to hurt me..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
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The blood rushed in my ears. Mia. My sweet, innocent six-year-old daughter, sleeping in her pink bedroom under a canopy of glow-in-the-dark stars, was five miles away from an army of professional killers looking to settle a blood feud with Dante Moretti.
"Victor," Dante snarled, tearing the IV needle out of the back of his hand with a sharp yank, sending a spray of blood across the white sheets. "Get the car. Now."
