Chapter 2 - The Poisoned Needle
I slammed my free hand over the IV port before Dr. Evans could inject the lethal fluid.
The chief of surgery glared at me with absolute fury.
He ordered me to step away from the operating table immediately.
I refused to move, keeping my body securely wedged between him and Vincent.
I loudly announced that potassium chloride was not part of any standard trauma protocol.
Vincent's stormy gray eyes shifted rapidly from my face to the doctor's sweating forehead.
The mafia boss did not need formal medical training to understand exactly what was happening.
He released my wrist and grabbed Dr. Evans by the throat with terrifying, inhuman speed.
The doctor dropped the poisoned syringe, his hands clawing desperately at Vincent's massive forearm.
Vincent's loyal guards finally realized something was wrong and burst through the heavy glass doors.
They tackled the suffocating doctor to the sterile floor, pinning him down under heavy combat boots.
Vincent fell back against the bloody pillows, his breathing turning into shallow, painful gasps.
He demanded that the entire hospital floor be locked down and secured by his own men.
He looked at me, his chest heaving as more blood spilled from the wound near his ribs.
He commanded that no other medical professional was allowed inside this room.
I was terrified, but my nursing instincts completely overrode my fear.
I told him I could not perform a surgical bullet extraction without an anesthesiologist.
Vincent stared at me with an intensity that made the room feel ten degrees colder.
He flatly refused to be put to sleep, fearing the absolute loss of control that had once led to his burning.
He demanded that I dig the bullets out of his flesh while he remained completely awake.
I warned him that the pain would be unimaginable with only local numbing injections.
He coldly replied that he had survived much worse things than a scalpel.
I sterilized my instruments with trembling hands, feeling the crushing weight of the entire Chicago underworld on my shoulders.
I applied the local anesthetic, praying it would be enough to keep him from going into severe neurogenic shock.
I made the first incision, and Vincent's entire body tensed like coiled steel.
He did not scream, but the monitor showed his heart rate skyrocketing into dangerous territory.
I talked to him constantly, my voice steady and low as I worked the forceps deep into his torn muscle.
I finally gripped the first piece of deformed metal and pulled it completely free.
I dropped the bloody bullet into a metal surgical basin with a loud, ringing clatter.
I wiped the blood away to examine the caliber, but my eyes caught something impossible.
The bullet was completely custom, engraved with the tiny, unmistakable image of a black widow spider.
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Vincent leaned forward, his face turning ghostly pale as he looked at the metal basin.
He whispered that Isabella, the woman who burned him eleven years ago, was finally back in Chicago.
