Chapter 2 - The St. Jude Sanctuary
The St. Jude Private Clinic did not appear on municipal maps. Tucked behind a high stone wall in an industrial sector of South Brooklyn, it was a state-of-the-art medical facility funded entirely by the shadows, built to treat gunshot wounds and blade trauma for men who could never step foot in a public emergency room.
The heavy steel doors hissed open as Dominic burst inside, carrying Lily in his arms.
Dr. Marcus Vance, a brilliant trauma surgeon who owed his career—and his life—to the Valentine family, was already waiting scrubbed and gloved by the surgical suite entrance.
“Put her on table two,” Vance commanded, his eyes scanning the wound. “The bullet passed through the flesh of her shoulder, but the second one grazed her ribs and fractured the ninth bone. She’s lost a dangerous amount of blood.”
“Save her, Marcus,” Dominic said, his face carved from stone. He stood frozen in the doorway, his black sweater smeared with Lily’s blood, watching as nurses cut away her ruined apron and shirt.
“I’ll do everything I can, Dominic,” Vance replied grimly, sliding the heavy glass doors shut.
Dominic turned around and walked into the sterile, high-ceilinged waiting room. Victor was standing by the window, flanked by three armed guards.
“Did we get a name from the dead gunmen?” Dominic asked, his voice deathly quiet.
“Pike and Miller,” Victor answered, pulling a bloodstained burner phone from his pocket. “Runners for the Marcone family out of Queens. They thought you were vulnerable because you were dining in a public establishment without your regular detail.”
Dominic walked slowly to the window, his reflection staring back at him in the dark glass. For five years, since his wife’s death, he had walked a delicate tightrope between legitimate corporate development and the violent underworld that had birthed him. He had thought that keeping a low profile, eating in diners like a normal father, would shield his children from his life.
Tonight, a twenty-eight-year-old waitress who worked three jobs to pay her mother’s cancer bills had taken two bullets meant for his children.
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“The Marcone family wanted to send a message,” Victor said carefully. “Shall we send a reply?”
“No,” Dominic said, his voice cold enough to freeze blood. “Not a reply. An eviction.”
