Chapter 3 - The Empty Apartment
I finished extracting the remaining two bullets while Vincent remained locked in a terrifying silence.
He did not flinch as I stitched his skin back together with meticulous care.
His mind was clearly far away from the hospital, plotting a brutal war that would undoubtedly tear the city apart.
I taped the final bandage over his ribs and quietly announced that the procedure was finished.
Vincent finally looked at me, his eyes softening just a fraction of an inch.
He told his men to prepare his heavily armored convoy for an immediate departure.
He turned back to me and ordered me to pack my things because I was coming with him.
I froze, stepping away from the operating table and shaking my head.
I explained that my shift was over, I had saved his life, and I just wanted to go home to feed my cat.
I was an underpaid nurse who lived in a tiny studio apartment, and I wanted absolutely nothing to do with a mafia war.
Vincent warned me that Isabella never left loose ends, and saving his life had just put a massive target on my back.
I stubbornly refused his protection, changing out of my bloody scrubs and walking out of the hospital.
The cold Chicago wind bit through my thin jacket as I walked the three blocks to my neighborhood.
I convinced myself that a powerful cartel boss like Isabella wouldn't care about an overweight, invisible trauma nurse.
I climbed the four flights of stairs to my floor, my entire body aching from the adrenaline crash.
I reached for my keys, but I noticed the heavy deadbolt was already splintered and broken.
My front door was resting slightly ajar, casting a long, ominous shadow across the hallway carpet.
I pushed the door open, my heart hammering violently against my ribcage.
My tiny apartment had been completely ransacked and destroyed.
The furniture was slashed, the cabinets were ripped from the walls, and my meager belongings were scattered everywhere.
I panicked, calling out desperately for my orange tabby cat, Oliver.
A massive hand suddenly clamped down firmly over my mouth from behind.
I screamed into the leather glove, thrashing wildly as a strong arm wrapped around my waist.
A familiar, deep voice whispered harshly into my ear to stop fighting.
It was Matteo, Vincent's lead bodyguard, holding Oliver safely in his other arm.
He released my mouth and spun me around to face the destroyed living room wall.
Written across the peeling wallpaper in thick, smeared blood was a chilling message.
The message read that Vincent could not hide behind the skirts of a fat little nurse forever.
Matteo grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door, stating we had to leave immediately.
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I stopped him, my eyes locked in pure horror on the source of the blood.
My hospital supervisor, the woman who had forced me to take Vincent's case, was hanging lifelessly from my ceiling fan.
