Chapter 3 - The Weight of a Debt
Victor stared at the paper on the floor for a long, silent moment.
The gun didn't lower immediately, but the angle shifted by a fraction of an inch—just enough to break the direct line between the barrel and my head.
With his left hand, without taking his eyes off me, he crouched down with athletic precision, picked up the hospital bill, and unfolded it.
His dark eyebrows drew together as his eyes scanned the medical jargon, the patient's age (15 years old), the diagnosis (End-Stage Renal Failure), and the staggering, impossible sum required to keep my brother alive for another month.
When he stood back up, the expression on his face had changed. The absolute, unyielding ice of a mafia boss had fractured, replaced by something dark, calculating, and intensely analytical.
“You’re the new girl,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “The one Gable hired from the employment agency on Ashland Avenue. Clara, right?”
“Yes,” I breathed, shivering violently as a fresh wave of chills wracked my body. “Mr. Russo... I’m sorry. You can fire me. Just... please don't take my last paycheck. Tommy needs his medication tomorrow morning—”
I tried to sit up, but the world suddenly spun off its axis. My stomach heaved, my vision tunneled into a tiny pinprick of white light, and I slumped back against the pillows, completely helpless.
Victor watched me fall back.
He didn't call for security. Instead, he holstered his weapon with a sharp click that echoed in the quiet room.
He stepped closer to the bed, reached down, and placed the back of his large, calloused hand directly against my forehead.
The contrast between the freezing winter air clinging to his coat and the blazing inferno of my skin was instantaneous.
Victor cursed under his breath—a low, violent Italian swear word that I barely caught.
“You’re burning up,” he said, his tone no longer menacing, but dangerously flat. “You have a temperature of at least a hundred and four.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, my teeth chattering so hard I could barely form the syllables. “I can clean the bathroom... I can finish—”
“Shut up, Clara,” he commanded softly.
Before I could protest, Victor slipped one arm beneath my knees and the other behind my back, lifting me effortlessly from the mattress.
For a man who ruled the Chicago docks through fear and extortion, his movements were remarkably steady. He carried me across the massive bedroom, bypassing the standard guest quarters, and walked straight toward his own private en-suite bathroom, laying me down gently on a velvet-upholstered chaise lounge near the heated marble tub.
“Mr. Russo—”
“Quiet,” he repeated, walking over to the intercom built into the wall by the door. He pressed a silver button. “Gable.”
A staticky buzz followed instantly. “Yes, Mr. Russo? Is there a problem with the suite? I inspected it myself—”
“Get up here,” Victor interrupted, his voice cutting like a razor. “Bring the medical kit from the safe. And call Dr. Rossi. Tell him to get his car out of the garage and be at the estate in twenty minutes, or I’ll drag him out of his bed myself.”
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“Dr. Rossi, sir? But—who is injured?”
“Just do it, Gable,” Victor snapped, and cut the intercom before she could ask another question.
