Chapter 4 - His hand moved toward the pistol resting on the counter.
“Frank.”
Clara barely whispered his name.
“Get in with Toby.”
His voice had lost all humor.
“Lock the heavy door. Don’t open it for anybody but me or the boss.”
Clara did not argue.
She dropped the textbook and ran.
She entered Toby’s room.
He was awake.
Eyes wide.
Panicked.
“What’s happening?”
“Quiet.”
Clara slammed the oak door and threw the deadbolt.
Then she dragged a heavy chair across the floor and wedged it beneath the handle.
Gunfire exploded in the living room.
It did not sound like movies.
No clean rhythm.
No neat sequence.
Only the deafening overlap of automatic weapons inside an enclosed building.
The floor vibrated.
Plaster fell from the ceiling.
Toby tried to sit up.
Pain crossed his face.
“Stay down.”
Clara forced him back onto the pillows.
“If those stitches tear, you bleed out in 3 minutes.”
She dragged the IV stand away from the likely line of fire.
Then crouched beside Toby’s bed.
Her heart beat violently.
She had no gun.
Only trauma shears and gauze.
The shooting stopped suddenly.
The silence was worse.
Clara held her breath.
Then something struck the door.
Thud.
She tightened her grip around the trauma shears.
A pathetic weapon against rifles.
But she would not die on her knees.
“Clara.”
The voice outside was weak.
Wet.
Strained.
Frank.
Clara exhaled and moved.
She shoved the chair away.
Unlocked the deadbolt.
Opened the door.
Frank collapsed inside.
The hallway behind him was dark and filled with cordite, drywall dust, and blood.
Frank’s suit had been ripped open.
2 rounds had entered his right shoulder.
Another had struck his thigh.
Blood soaked the expensive fabric.
“Maronis.”
He coughed blood onto the floor.
“4 came up the back stairs. Dead now.”
His mouth twisted.
“But I’m leaking, Doc.”
“I’m a nurse.”
Clara’s hands were already moving.
Panic had no value.
Blood was arithmetic.
Volume lost against time.
She cut open Frank’s trouser leg.
The wound in his thigh was arterial.
Bright red blood pulsed with every heartbeat.
“Toby.”
She did not look away.
“Give me your belt.”
Toby hesitated through the medication haze.
“Now!”
He fumbled with the belt and threw it toward her.
Clara looped it high around Frank’s thigh.
Then pulled with everything she had, bracing 1 boot against his hip.
Frank roared as the leather compressed the muscle.
“Hold this.”
She pushed the loose end into his hand.
“Do not let go.”
Then she turned to the shoulder wounds.
Clara tore open 2 packages of QuickClot gauze with her teeth.
She packed the material into the wounds and leaned her body weight against Frank’s chest.
He groaned.
“You got heavy hands, lady.”
“Shut up and breathe.”
Downstairs, the club doors crashed open.
More men.
More footsteps.
Frank tried to lift his gun.
His arm shook.
He was slipping into hypovolemic shock.
“More of them.”
His speech slurred.
“Get behind me.”
Clara did not move.
If she released pressure, Frank could die before anyone reached them.
She stared down the corridor.
Waiting.
A figure emerged from the smoke.
Tall.
Broad.
Weapon raised.
“Clear!”
Dominic.
He moved into the light carrying a matte-black rifle.
3 armed men were behind him.
They swept the living room, moving around the bodies of the Maroni attackers.
Then Dominic saw Clara.
He dropped the rifle.
It struck the floor.
He crossed the hallway in 3 long steps and dropped to his knees beside her.
“Are you hit?”
His hands moved over her shoulders.
Her neck.
Her arms.
Searching for wounds.
His eyes were wild.
No calculation.
No restraint.
Pure panic.
“No.”
Clara’s voice shook now that the immediate danger had passed.
“I’m fine. Toby’s fine. Frank isn’t.”
She kept pressure on the wounds.
“He needs a hospital now.”
Dominic looked at his enforcer.
Frank managed a weak, bloodstained grin.
“Told you she had nerves of steel, boss.”
Then his eyes rolled back.
He lost consciousness.
Dominic stood.
He snapped his fingers toward 2 men.
“Take him. Underground clinic. Tell the butcher to prep for surgery.”
They lifted Frank.
Dominic turned back toward Clara.
She knelt in blood.
Her hands were crimson to the elbows.
Exactly as they had been the night he first entered St. Jude’s.
Dominic reached down.
He took her around the waist and lifted her to her feet.
Then did not release her.
He pulled Clara against his chest and buried his face against the side of her neck.
A tremor moved through his body.
Clara froze.
Frank’s blood covered her.
Dominic smelled of gunpowder and street dirt.
It was a filthy, violent embrace.
For the 1st time in 5 years, Clara did not want to escape it.
Slowly, she lifted her blood-covered hands.
Placed them against Dominic’s back.
2 days later, the war ended.
Clara heard about it on the morning news.
A massive explosion at a warehouse in the port district.
3 high-ranking members of the Maroni syndicate found dead.
The anchor called it a tragic industrial accident.
Clara knew it was an execution.
That evening, Dominic returned.
He looked exhausted.
The manic tension of the previous week had disappeared and left bone-deep fatigue behind.
He entered the kitchen.
Dropped his coat over a stool.
Leaned against the marble island.
Clara was making tea.
She watched him.
“It’s over.”
Dominic stared at his own hands.
“Maroni is dead. His lieutenants are dead. The rest scattered.”
He looked up.
“They won’t come back.”
Clara set down the mug.
“And Frank?”
“He’ll live.”
Dominic’s voice softened slightly.
“The butcher removed the bullets. He’ll have a limp.”
A faint trace of exhaustion passed through his face.
“He’s already asking for crossword puzzles.”
“Toby?”
“Fever broke yesterday. He’s walking.”
Clara allowed herself the smallest breath of relief.
“He’s complaining about my food.”
“Then he’s better.”
Dominic nodded.
“Good.”
He pushed away from the island.
Took 1 step.
Then grimaced.
His hand moved to his left side.
He leaned against the wall.
Breathing shallowly.
Clara crossed the kitchen immediately.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Dominic tried to wave her off.
“Graze.”
Clara did not ask permission.
She grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it upward.
A deep laceration ran along his lower ribs.
Not a gunshot.
A knife wound.
The flesh was torn and still bleeding.
“You call this a graze?”
Clara’s medical authority returned without effort.
“You need stitches. Sit.”
Dominic looked at her.
A faint trace of amusement passed across his tired expression.
He obeyed.
He sat on a heavy stool near the island.
Then removed his shirt completely.
Clara retrieved the medical kit.
She returned and stood between his knees to reach the wound properly.
She cleaned the laceration.
Dominic hissed when antiseptic reached the exposed tissue.
He did not pull away.
“I need to suture it.”
Clara prepared local anesthetic and a needle.
“It’s going to sting.”
“I’ve had worse.”
She worked in silence.
Soft yellow pendant light filled the kitchen.
The intimacy felt almost physical.
Clara placed sutures with the same practiced rhythm she had used on Toby.
Dominic watched her face.
The concentration.
The slight furrow between her brows.
“You’re free.”
Clara paused.
The needle hovered above his skin.
“What?”
“The threat is gone.”
Dominic’s voice remained low.
“The Maronis are gone. I paid off the detectives investigating St. Jude’s. Their paperwork disappeared.”
He continued.
“Dr. Aris transferred to a clinic upstate.”
Clara tied another knot.
“You’re clear.”
She kept her eyes on the wound.
“Frank cleared out your apartment this afternoon.”
Clara stopped again.
“He packed everything.”
Dominic went on.
“I bought you a house north of the city. Quiet neighborhood. Good security. Near a top hospital if you want to keep working.”
His gaze stayed on her.
“The deed is in your name.”
A pause.
“You can leave tonight.”
Clara dropped the trauma shears onto the tray.
The metal clattered against metal.
She took 1 step back.
Then taped a heavy gauze pad over the sutures.
“You bought me a house.”
“Yes.”
“Because the transaction is finished.”
“Yes.”
Clara looked up.
Dominic’s face was guarded.
His eyes carried an emotion he was trying hard to bury.
He was giving her the exit he had promised.
Opening the cage.
Stepping away from the door.
Clara thought about the suburb.
A safe life.
Quiet.
Sterile.
No gunfire.
No cash-filled envelopes.
No bleeding men on hardwood floors.
Exactly what she had spent 5 years trying to create.
Then she looked at Dominic.
Something inside her had changed.
She was no longer running.
Perhaps she had stopped the night she wrapped Toby’s belt around Frank’s leg and waited for armed men to come through the hallway.
She was tired of hiding.
“What if I don’t want the house?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“Clara.”
His voice became rough.
“I’m not a good man.”
She said nothing.
“You know what I do.”
He gestured vaguely toward the world outside.
“You saw the bodies downstairs.”
His gaze sharpened.
“If you stay near me, this is your life.”
He paused.
“There will be more blood. There will always be danger.”
“I know.”
“You belong in the light.”
His voice lowered.
“Healing people. Not down here in the dark with me.”
Clara moved forward.
She stood between his knees again.
Then placed both hands flat against his chest.
Directly over his heart.
It was beating hard.
Fast enough to betray everything his expression concealed.
“I spent 5 years in the light.”
Clara’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“And I was terrified every day.”
Her hands remained on him.
“I jumped at shadows.”
She held his eyes.
“I flinched every time somebody raised a hand.”
Then she said the thing that mattered.
“I’m not flinching anymore, Dominic.”
He stared at her.
Read the certainty.
The walls he had built around himself finally cracked.
Dominic reached up.
His hands closed around Clara’s waist.
He pulled her against him.
Then kissed her.
Not gently.
Desperate.
Bruising.
Consuming.
The kiss of a man who had accepted exactly what he was.
Clara kissed him back.
Her fingers tangled into his dark hair.
She tasted bourbon and blood.
She did not care.
For the 1st time in her life, she felt completely safe.
May you like
She was standing in the dark.
And she chose to stay there.
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