Chapter 11 - The Shadow Over the Surgical Suite
The concrete bunker beneath the abandoned upstate distillery smelled of sterile isopropyl alcohol,
damp stone,
and fresh paint.
Outside,
the autumn rain lashed against the heavy iron blast doors,
drowning out the sound of the idling armored trucks parked along the perimeter.
Gabriel sat in his physical therapy chair in the center of the makeshift operating room,
his black silk shirt unbuttoned to his waist,
his dark eyes fixed on the digital monitors displaying his spinal scans.
Dr. Aris Thorne,
the legendary Boston neurosurgeon Vincent had smuggled into the country under a false passport,
snapped his surgical gloves into place with a sharp,
echoing pop.
"The clip is positioned directly between the L1 and L2 vertebrae,"
Dr. Thorne said,
his voice calm,
clinical,
and entirely unbothered by the four submachine-gun-toting guards standing in the corners of the room.
"It was placed with surgical precision,"
"designed to compress the central nerve bundle without causing permanent cell death."
"It's a marvel of malicious engineering,"
"really."
"Save the commentary,
Doctor,"
Gabriel growled,
his chest heaving slightly as he looked over at me.
"Just tell me if I'm going to walk out of this room,"
"or if I'm going to die on that table while my uncle hunts the woman I love."
My breath hitched in my throat at the word.
The woman I love.
He hadn't said it out loud before,
not in front of guards,
not in front of a surgeon,
and certainly not with such absolute,
uncompromising certainty.
Vincent glanced down at his boots,
a faint,
knowing smirk touching his scarred lips,
while I stood rigid by the tray of stainless steel scalpels,
my heart beating a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"You'll survive the procedure,"
Dr. Thorne replied smoothly,
adjusting the overhead halogen lamp so its intense white beam bathed Gabriel’s back in light.
"The real question is whether your nervous system can handle the sudden release of pressure."
"When I pop that titanium clip open,"
"six months of trapped electrical signals are going to flood your spinal cord all at once."
"It will feel like liquid lightning burning through your thighs,"
"your knees,"
"and your feet."
"If your heart gives out from the neuro-shock,"
"all the mobility in the world won't save you."
Gabriel turned his head,
locking his dark,
irresistible gaze onto mine.
"Maya,"
he commanded softly,
holding out his broad,
calloused hand.
I stepped forward without hesitation,
closing the distance between us,
and slipped my fingers into his.
His grip was tight,
possessive,
and reassuringly strong.
"If my heart stops,"
he whispered,
his voice dropping into a raspy,
intimate register that sent shivers straight down my spine,
"you shock me back."
"You don't let me leave you alone in this storm."
"I won't,"
I promised,
my eyes shining with unshed tears as I leaned down and pressed my forehead against his wet temple.
"I'll bring you back as many times as it takes,"
"you arrogant mafia bastard."
"Good,"
Gabriel murmured,
closing his eyes as Dr. Thorne pressed the oxygen mask over his face and injected the fast-acting general anesthetic into his IV line.
Within ten seconds,
his heavy grip relaxed,
his chest slowed to a deep,
rhythmic rise and fall,
and the room fell silent save for the steady beep of the heart monitor.
"Alright,
nurse,"
Dr. Thorne said,
May you like
reaching for a number ten scalpel.
"Let's go cut the leash off the king."
