Chapter 3 - The Secret Clinic
The silence that followed was broken only by the wet, rhythmic sound of Beckett Hume pulling thread through human flesh. Roderick stood in the center of the derelict room, looking at the scene before him. The green velvet curtains kept the daylight out, turning the room into a dark, subterranean cave where the rules of the Sabatini family didn't apply.
"He's stable," Beckett Hume finally said, snipping the thread with a pair of surgical scissors. He took off his bloody gloves and tossed them into a plastic bucket that was already half-full of crimson gauze. He looked at Roderick with no fear—only the exhaustion of a man who had seen too many bodies to care about who owned the guns. "The internal bleeding is stopped. But he needs fluids. Adriana, get the IV line."
Adriana didn't look at Roderick. She moved with professional speed, hanging a bag of saline from a rusty nail in the wall and connecting the tube to the boy's arm. Only when the line was clear did she turn back to her fiancé, her shoulders dropping with a heavy, defensive sigh.
"Come out into the hall," she said quietly.
Roderick followed her out into the narrow corridor. He tucked his gun back into his waistband, but his heart was still hammering against his ribs. "You lied to me," he said, his voice dropping into that cold, hard register that kept the entire New Orleans underworld in line. "You told me you were doing overnight consulting at the hospital. Cyrus saw you leaving through the side gate. Micah... Micah told me you were meeting different men every night."
Adriana let out a dry, bitter laugh, leaning her head against the peeling wallpaper. "Micah heard Teresa worrying. And Teresa isn't entirely wrong. I am meeting different men every night, Roderick. Men with gunshot wounds. Men with knife gashes. Men who belong to the gangs you fight with, or the independent crews who try to steal your cargo. Men who cannot go to the regular hospital because the moment they enter the emergency room, the police are called, or your enforcers show up to finish the job."
Roderick’s eyes narrowed. "You’re running an illegal underground triage clinic for my enemies."
"I am running a clinic for human beings," she snapped back, her gray eyes blazing. "I am a medical professional, Roderick! Before I met you, before I became a high-priced physical therapist for wealthy men with bad shoulders, I worked the free clinics in the wards. I saw what happens to these kids. They’re seventeen, eighteen years old. They make one mistake, they get recruited by some local crew, they take a bullet, and they bleed to death in an alley because they’re too terrified to seek help. Beckett and I... we don't care about their flags. We don't care about their names. We fix them."
"You took money from me," Roderick said, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "The extra funding for your research foundation... the medical supplies you asked me to clear through the port customs..."
"I used your power to save the people your power breaks," she said softly, the anger draining from her, leaving her looking fragile against the dark wood of the hallway. "I knew if I told you, you’d stop me. You’d say it was a security risk. You’d say I was helping the enemy. But Roderick... look at that boy in there. He’s nineteen. The same age your brother was when he died in that alley."
The mention of his brother was like a physical strike to his jaw. Roderick stepped back, his chest rising and falling quickly. "Don't talk about Julian."
"Why not?" she pleaded, stepping closer, reaching out to touch his arm with her clean elbow since her hands were still contaminated. "Julian died because no one found him in time to stop the bleeding. If there had been a house like this closer to the river, if there had been someone who didn't care about the Sabatini name and just cared about a boy with a hole in his chest... Julian would be thirty years old today. He’d be sitting in your garden, Roderick."
Roderick looked away, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked violently near his ear. He wanted to storm out. He wanted to order his men to burn this house to the ground and lock Adriana inside the mansion where she would be safe from the filth of the city.
But as he looked through the doorway at the tattooed boy on the mattress—the chest rising and falling in a fragile, drug-induced sleep—he saw the faint resemblance. The young age. The wasted life. The absolute terror of a child caught in a machine too big for him.
"You can't do this anymore," Roderick said, his voice rough. "Not like this. The Bayou Boys are in a turf war with the Maroni family. If Maroni’s men find out you are patching up their targets, they won't care that you're my fiancée. They will use you to get to me. They will turn this house into a slaughterhouse."
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Before Adriana could answer, the front door rattled again. This time, it wasn't a push—it was a heavy, rhythmic kick that cracked the remaining wood of the frame.
Cyrus Nolan’s voice boomed from the porch. "Boss! We’ve got a problem! Maroni’s scouts just turned the corner on Esplanade! They tracked the kid’s car! They’re coming!"
