Chapter 4 - The Viper's Strike
The atmosphere in the library became instantly suffocating. Garrett’s eyes flicked from Lincoln’s cold smile to Bruno’s stoic posture, and finally to Delia. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his temple.
"Yes, sir," Garrett stammered, trying to maintain his composure. "It's a disaster. I've already ordered the secondary security teams to mobilize, but we're outnumbered. I... I suggest we evacuate you to the safehouse in the valley."
"The safehouse," Lincoln repeated, his voice dangerously smooth as he walked slowly toward the younger man. "The one only you, Bruno, and I know about?"
"Yes, sir. It's the safest place."
Lincoln stopped mere inches from Garrett. He was half a foot taller, his massive frame completely eclipsing the younger man. "Tell me, Garrett. If I go to that safehouse, will the Moretti men be waiting for me there too?"
Garrett’s breath hitched. "I... I don't understand, Mr. Frost."
"You've been very busy, Garrett," Lincoln whispered, his voice like dry leaves scraping across concrete. "Whispering in hallways. Making phone calls in the dark. Planning to carve up my city while I slept."
"That's—that's a lie!" Garrett cried, his eyes widening in terror. He pointed a shaking finger at Delia. "It's her! She's a stranger, Mr. Frost! She's the one who was lurking in the dark last night! She's probably a spy sent by the Morettis to poison your mind!"
"She's a nurse," Lincoln said, his tone turning to ice. "And she is under my protection. You, on the other hand, have outlived your usefulness."
With a sudden, violent movement, Lincoln grabbed Garrett by the collar of his expensive suit and slammed him against the heavy oak door. The impact rattled the books on the shelves. Garrett gasped, his legs dangling off the floor as Lincoln’s grip tightened around his throat.
"I gave you everything," Lincoln growled, the raw fury of the man finally breaking through his calm facade. "And you sold me out for a percentage of the docks?"
"Please..." Garrett choked out, his face turning a dark shade of purple. "Please, Mr. Frost... I was forced... they threatened my family..."
"You don't have a family, Garrett. I checked your file before I hired you," Lincoln said coldly. He turned his head slightly toward Bruno. "Take him to the basement. I want the names of everyone he spoke to in the Moretti family. And Bruno?"
"Yes, boss?"
"Do not make it quick."
"No!" Garrett screamed as Bruno stepped forward, grabbing him by the shoulders with crushing force. "Mr. Frost, please! I'll tell you everything! I'll give you the safe codes! Don't let them do this!"
Delia turned her face away, her stomach churning as Bruno dragged the screaming man out of the library and down the hall. Even though she knew Garrett was a traitor and a threat, the raw, casual brutality of Lincoln's world shocked her to her core.
She felt a hand on her shoulder.
She flinched, but the grip was surprisingly gentle. She looked up to see Lincoln standing close to her, his expression softened once again, though his eyes still carried the remnants of his lethal rage.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I... I've never seen anything like that," she whispered, her voice trembling. "In the hospital, we fight to save lives. Here... you decide who lives and dies like it's nothing."
"It's not nothing," Lincoln said quietly. "It's survival. If I let Garrett go, he would have killed me, he would have killed Bruno, and eventually, he would have killed you to cover his tracks. In my world, Mercy is just another word for weakness."
"Is that why you live in this fortress?" Delia asked, looking around the cold, empty penthouse. "With no photos, no warmth, no one to care if you come home?"
Lincoln’s jaw tightened, and for a brief second, she saw a flash of profound loneliness in his eyes. But he quickly masked it. "This fortress keeps me alive. And now, it will keep you and your niece alive. Bruno has already gone to fetch Naomi and your friend."
Delia’s heart leaped. "Naomi? Is she safe?"
"She is safe," Lincoln assured her. "But until the Moretti threat is eliminated, neither of you can leave this building. The docks are in chaos, and my enemies will be looking for any leverage they can find against me."
As the day progressed, the penthouse became a command center. Lincoln stood over a massive glass table in the main room, reviewing blueprints and security feeds with his lieutenants. Delia watched from the kitchen, preparing herbal tea to help soothe Lincoln’s frayed nerves.
She noticed that despite his recovery, he was still pushing himself too hard. He hadn't eaten all day, and his left arm was stiffening.
She walked out to the main room, carrying a tray with tea and a simple sandwich. "You need to eat, Mr. Frost. And I need to change your bandage."
The men around the table fell silent, staring at her in shock. No one interrupted Lincoln Frost when he was planning a war.
Lincoln looked up, his brow furrowed in irritation. But as his eyes met Delia’s steady, stubborn gaze, the anger faded from his face.
"Leave us," Lincoln ordered his men.
The lieutenants quickly gathered their papers and exited, casting curious, respectful glances at Delia as they left.
Lincoln sat at the table, letting out a long sigh. "You have a habit of interrupting me at the worst times, Delia."
"I have a habit of keeping my patients alive," she corrected, setting the tray down. "Eat. Then let me look at your arm."
He complied, eating the sandwich in silence while she carefully snipped away the old bandage. The wound was clean, but she noticed a strange, faint discoloration around the edges of the skin—a slight yellowish tint that hadn't been there the night before.
Delia’s breath hitched. She leaned closer, sniffing the wound gently.
"What is it?" Lincoln asked, noticing her sudden tension.
"The blade," she whispered, her heart dropping. "The blade that cut you last night... it wasn't just steel. There's a chemical residue here. A localized toxin designed to prevent clotting and slowly cause systemic organ failure over forty-eight hours."
Lincoln’s eyes darkened. "Garrett."
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"It wasn't meant to kill you instantly," Delia said, her fingers moving fast as she grabbed a clean swab from her bag. "It was meant to make you look like you died of natural exhaustion or a sudden stroke after the stress of the dock attack. If I hadn't checked this... if we had just let it heal..."
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with terror. "By tomorrow morning, your heart would have stopped."
