Chapter 8 - The Hostage in the White Ward
By Wednesday morning, Dominic was walking.
He moved with a slight stiffness in his shoulder, but to anyone watching him step out of the armored SUV outside the Kessler estate, he was invulnerable. Marcus had replaced the ruined wardrobe with a fresh charcoal suit, tailored specifically with extra room in the left sleeve to conceal the bulky bandage beneath.
I had returned to our home, but the house felt different now. The cold marble didn't seem as imposing; the shadows held secrets I now shared.
Yet the world outside didn't wait for our war to conclude.
At two in the afternoon, my phone rang on the kitchen island. It was a restricted number.
“Claire?” a frantic, familiar voice came through the speaker.
“Elena?” I straightened up, recognizing the head nurse from St. Jude’s pediatric ward. “What's wrong? Is it Owen?”
“Claire, there are men here,” Elena whispered, her voice trembling so hard the words tumbled over each other. “Three men in suits. They’re in Owen’s room. They… they said they were from the foundation, checking on the donor equipment. But they locked the door from the inside, Claire. They won't let the respiratory therapist in.”
My blood ran instantly cold.
“Where is hospital security?” I demanded, already moving toward the grand staircase.
“They showed badges! Federal or state, I don't know! Mr. Bell let them in! Claire, they asked for you. They asked what time you were coming in to check his chart.”
“Get everyone away from that room, Elena,” I said, my voice dropping into that chilling, clinical register. “Pull the fire alarm. Right now.”
“What?”
“Pull the fire alarm! Evacuate the ward! Do not let anyone near room fourteen!”
I hung up, sprinting down the corridor toward Dominic’s study. I didn't knock. I shoved the double doors open so hard they cracked against the wood-paneled walls.
Dominic was standing behind his desk, surrounded by Marcus and three lieutenants looking over blueprints of a downtown hotel. Every head snapped toward me.
“Claire?” Dominic frowned, stepping around the desk, his hand rising instinctively to soothe whatever had frightened me.
“Lucian has Owen,” I said, the words falling like lead stones onto the Persian rug.
The room went instantly dead.
Dominic’s gray eyes widened, then contracted into twin points of black ice. “What did you say?”
“Three of his men are in room fourteen at St. Jude’s,” I said, my chest heaving, the terror finally breaking through my voice. “They’re using the boy to draw me out. If they have me, you won't walk into that council meeting on Friday. You’ll walk into whatever trap Lucian sets to get me back.”
Marcus cursed under his breath, reaching for his phone.
“Don't call the police,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm—the silence before an artillery strike. “Lucian owns the precinct captain in that district. A patrol car will only cause a barricade situation, and an eight-year-old boy will end up caught in the crossfire.”
“What do we do?” I begged, stepping up to him, grabbing the lapels of his suit. “Dominic, that little boy has an incision that isn't fully healed! If they stress his cardiac rhythm, he will code! He has nothing to do with this!”
Dominic looked down at my hands on his chest. Then, he looked up at Marcus.
“Call the North Side crews,” Dominic commanded, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “Tell them the ceasefire with the docks is terminated. I want Lucian’s warehouse on Pier 42 burning within thirty minutes.”
“Boss?” Marcus stared at him. “Pier 42 is worth eighty million dollars in cargo—”
“Burn it to the waterline,” Dominic repeated without a shred of hesitation. “Cut their power. Cut their transit lines. Make Lucian think we are launching a total assault on his primary income.”
He turned back to me, his broad hands coming up to cup my face, his thumbs wiping away the single tear that had escaped my control.
“And you and I,” he whispered, his gray eyes burning with cold fire, “are going to visit the hospital.”
“Dominic, they are waiting for me,” I warned him.
May you like
“No, Claire,” Dominic said, leaning down until his forehead touched mine, his breath warm against my trembling lips. “They are waiting for a nurse. They have forgotten that you belong to me.”
***
