Chapter 2 - The Cold Breath in the Dark
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The grip around my fingers was weak, but it was unmistakably human.
Cold skin pressed against mine, burning with a faint, electric shock of impossible life.
My lungs seized as the heavy brass door handle completed its downward turn.
I had less than three seconds to choose between running and becoming an accomplice to a living corpse.
I threw myself backward, sliding beneath the stainless steel dissection table just as the door swung open with a screech.
The sterile white linoleum reflected the polished leather of Carmine’s bespoke Italian shoes.
Behind him, Dr. Mercer pushed a squeaking gurney loaded with a heavy, zippered vinyl bag.
"Wrap him up and get him to the South Side crematorium before six," Carmine barked, his voice vibrating with impatient venom.
"Mr. Falcone has family," Dr. Mercer stammered, his rubber gloves trembling. "The capo council expects a public viewing, Carmine."
Carmine stepped forward until the toes of his oxfords touched the hanging white sheet inches from my face.
"The council does what I pay them to do," Carmine sneered, tapping the steel table with a heavy gold signet ring.
"Gabriel died of a catastrophic pulmonary failure caused by street thugs."
"We burn him, scatter the ash in the river, and by noon tomorrow, Chicago answers to me."
Under the sheet, Gabriel lay entirely still, obeying my silent prayer.
My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I was certain Carmine would hear it.
"Wait," Dr. Mercer said, adjusting his glasses as he stepped around the opposite side.
"What is that?"
"What is what, you quack?" Carmine snapped.
"His skin tone," the doctor whispered, reaching toward Gabriel's neck. "The lividity is wrong."
"He was shot three times with aconite-laced hollow points over four hours ago, yet there is no mottled pooling in the extremities."
"You signed the death certificate at eleven forty-two, Mercer," Carmine said, his voice dropping into a register that made the room turn arctic.
The metallic slide of a Glock chambering a round clicked in the quiet room.
"Are you telling me you made a mistake on legal paperwork?" Carmine asked.
"No, no, sir," Dr. Mercer gasped, yanking his hand back as if burned.
"Good," Carmine murmured, holstering the weapon beneath his tailored wool coat.
"Zip him up."
"If he isn't reduced to carbon before sunrise, you'll be joining him in the furnace."
Carmine turned on his heel and strode toward the corridor, his footsteps fading toward the executive wing.
Dr. Mercer let out a ragged sob, unfurling the black body bag with frantic, shaking hands.
I knew that if Gabriel was zipped inside that airtight rubber, the faint spark of life inside him would suffocate within minutes.
I reached out from the shadows beneath the steel legs and grabbed a fallen surgical retractor from the waste bin.
I rose from beneath the table like a vengeful shadow.
Before the terrified doctor could scream, I drove the heavy steel instrument against the nerve cluster on the side of his neck.
Dr. Mercer collapsed onto the linoleum floor without a sound.
I dropped to my knees beside Gabriel and pulled the white sheet from his face.
His dark eyes were cracked open, clouded with agony, staring straight into mine.
His cracked lips parted, releasing a whisper of warm vapor into the freezing air.
"Matilda..." he rasped.
"Don't speak," I whispered, tears blurring my vision as I checked his wrist.
His pulse was fluttering like the wings of a dying bird, but it was fighting.
"They're coming back with a transport van in ten minutes," I said, grabbing a nearby syringe of epinephrine from the crash cart.
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"You stood up for me when I was nothing."
"Now let me get you out of hell."
