Chapter 4 - The Hospital Room at Dawn
The morning sun broke through the heavy gray storm clouds, casting a cold, metallic light over the city.
The armored SUV drove through the private rear ambulance bay of St. Jude’s Hospital.
Nico sat beside me in the back seat, dressed in a sharp black suit and a heavy wool overcoat.
He had not slept a single minute during the night; he had spent the hours organizing men and reviewing routes.
Before we left the house, he had insisted I wear a thick high-collared cashmere sweater and dark tailored trousers.
He had personally checked the perimeter of the car twice before opening the door for me.
The heavy metal doors of the hospital service elevator opened onto the fourth floor, the private intensive care unit.
Four armed guards wearing dark suits stood outside the corner room, their eyes snapping to Nico the moment we stepped out.
Dante was already there, leaning against the nurses' station with a cold cup of black coffee in his hand.
His face was lined with fatigue, his dark hair disheveled from a sleepless night guarding the perimeter.
"Boss," Dante greeted, his eyes flickering toward me with a mixture of distrust and curiosity.
"Any change?" Nico asked, walking directly toward the glass doors of Room 402.
"Stable, but barely," Dante murmured, following closely behind us.
"The doctors say the cranial swelling hasn't gone down."
"They're keeping him in an induced coma to prevent permanent brain damage."
Nico pushed the heavy door open, and the rhythmic, hollow beeping of medical monitors filled the air.
Marco Ferrara lay in the center of the room, surrounded by tangled wires, IV drips, and a ventilator tube taped into his mouth.
His face, which had once shared Nico’s sharp, handsome jawline, was heavily bruised and swollen with dark purple lacerations.
Nico walked to the edge of the bed and placed his hand over Marco’s limp, pale fingers.
I stood near the doorway, my chest tightening as the guilt of my father's actions weighed heavily upon my shoulders.
This young man, only twenty-six years old, was fighting for his life because my father wanted to protect a stolen fortune.
Dante stepped up beside Nico, his voice low and bitter.
"We checked the perimeter three times this morning, Boss," Dante reported.
"Two unmarked sedans were spotted circling the hospital block at four in the morning."
"Ashford’s private contractors, most likely."
"They’re looking for a way in to finish what they started on the bridge road."
Nico didn't look away from his brother’s face.
"They won't get within fifty feet of this room," Nico said, his voice flat and lethal.
I took two hesitant steps forward, my eyes scanning the transparent plastic bags hanging from the metal IV stands.
My mother had been a trained pharmacist before she married Edmund Ashford.
During my years of isolation in the estate, I had read every medical textbook left behind in her private collection.
I knew the chemical compositions of medications; I knew what helped and what destroyed the body.
"Excuse me," I said softly, my voice trembling slightly in the tense room.
Dante’s eyes narrowed instantly, his hand dropping toward his holster.
"Boss, why is she even here?" Dante asked, irritation bleeding into his words.
"Her father put Marco in this bed."
"Stand down, Dante," Nico commanded sharply without raising his voice.
"What is it, Nora?"
I pointed toward the clear fluid feeding into the central line in Marco's neck.
"What is in that drip bag?" I asked, looking up at the digital readout on the infusion pump.
"It’s a standard sedative to reduce cerebral metabolic demand," Dante snapped dismissively.
"The doctor ordered it two hours ago."
I stepped closer to the bed, ignoring Dante’s hostile glare, and leaned in to inspect the handwritten label on the port.
There was a faint, bitter almond odor lingering near the injection port, almost undetectable beneath the alcohol wipes.
"This isn't standard propofol or midazolam," I said, my heart suddenly racing.
"Smell this port."
Nico immediately leaned forward, his nostrils flaring as he caught the subtle, chemical scent.
"What are you saying, Nora?" Nico asked, his eyes locking onto mine with terrifying sharpness.
"My father kept a specific compound in his private safe for silencing business associates without leaving obvious traces," I explained.
"It’s a synthetic succinylcholine derivative that causes micro-clots in comatose patients, making the death look like a sudden pulmonary embolism from trauma."
"If that bag finishes emptying into his vein, his heart will stop within twenty minutes, and the autopsy will blame the car accident."
Dante looked stunned, glancing between me and the machine.
"That’s impossible," Dante stammered.
"The hospital staff—"
Before Dante could finish his sentence, Nico reached out and violently ripped the plastic line away from Marco’s neck catheter.
The transparent fluid spilled onto the linoleum floor, hissing slightly against the wax finish.
"Dante," Nico barked, his voice like cracking thunder.
"Lock down this entire floor right now."
"Find the doctor who signed off on that specific medication bag."
"If he tries to leave the building, shoot him in the knees and bring him to the basement."
"Yes, Boss!" Dante yelled, bolting through the glass doors with his weapon already drawn.
The sound of boots pounding down the corridor echoed outside the ICU room.
I stood beside the bed, my breathing ragged as I looked down at Marco's chest, which was still rising and falling steadily with the ventilator.
Nico turned to me, his dark eyes ablaze with a mixture of raw fury and intense gratitude.
"You just saved my brother’s life," Nico said, stepping toward me.
"My father’s men have infiltrated the hospital staff," I whispered, panic rising in my throat.
"He knows Marco could wake up at any moment."
"He knows the audit papers are in Marco’s head even without the ledger."
"Then we don't have until tonight," Nico said, reaching into his overcoat and pulling out his radio.
Before he could speak into the device, a sharp, deafening crack shattered the heavy glass window of the hospital room.
A high-caliber bullet tore through the outer pane, embedding itself deep into the drywall inches from my head.
Plaster dust exploded into the air like white smoke.
"Down!" Nico roared, throwing his entire body over mine as another bullet cracked through the glass.
He tackled me to the linoleum floor, shielding my head and neck beneath his massive chest.
Glass showered over his black wool coat, tinkling like broken ice around us.
Across the street, on the roof of the commercial parking garage, a muzzle flash winked through the gray morning light.
"Dante!" Nico bellowed into the radio pinned to his lapel, keeping me pinned safely beneath him.
"Sniper on the north garage roof!"
"Take the chase team and eliminate them now!"
"I’m moving the primary package out through the emergency freight exit!"
"Are you hit?" Nico asked, looking down into my eyes, his face only inches from mine.
His hands were frantically checking my arms, my shoulders, and my waist for blood.
"I'm fine," I gasped, clutching the lapels of his jacket, my heart hammering like a war drum.
"I'm not bleeding, Nico."
"Good," he growled, pulling his pistol from beneath his arm.
May you like
"Because we are going to your father’s house right now."
"And we are taking that ledger before he has the chance to burn it."
