Chapter 3 - The Price of Loyalty
The morning sun broke over the Atlantic Ocean, casting a pale gold light through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Marquetti penthouse estate in Watch Hill.
Four days had passed since the night of the fire. Against every piece of medical advice Dr. Vance had offered, Stefano had discharged himself from the hospital trauma unit ninety-six hours early, opting instead to turn his sprawling oceanfront mansion into a high-tech medical bunker.
Alice stood by the kitchen island, pulling a fresh pair of sterile non-nitrile gloves over her fingers. On the counter sat a surgical tray lined with saline flushes, sterile gauze, and fresh dressing kits.
"He’s refusing his pain medication again," Danny said, stepping into the kitchen wearing a dark charcoal suit, a cup of black coffee in his hand.
Alice didn't look up from her tray. "He’s an idiot. His intercostal nerve block wore off six hours ago. He’s trying to tough out a shattered rib because he thinks showing pain in front of his lieutenant makes him look weak."
Danny let out a soft, dry chuckle. "You’re the first person in seven years who’s called Stefano Marquetti an idiot to his house’s face and lived to talk about it."
"I’m his nurse, Mr. Falcone, not his court jester," Alice replied, snapping the second glove over her wrist. "If he wants to tear his thoracic sutures open because of his ego, I’ll let him explain that to Nero."
Speak of the dog, and he appears.
Nero padded into the kitchen, his heavy paws making almost no sound on the imported Italian tile. He walked straight to Alice, pressing the side of his broad head against her thigh. Alice reached down, scratching him behind his floppy ears, her expression softening completely.
"See?" Danny observed, leaning against the counter. "He doesn't even look at me anymore. He follows you around like you’re his handler."
"He’s not complex," Alice said, reaching into her pocket and tossing a small piece of unseasoned cooked beef to the mastiff, who caught it effortlessly in mid-air. "He likes routine, he likes clarity, and he hates people who smell like fear or chemical perfume. Your security team smells like adrenaline and gun oil. It makes him nervous."
"Speaking of security," Danny’s face hardened, his casual tone evaporating instantly. "The investigation into the fire at the Newport house finished three hours ago. It wasn't an electrical short in the west wing."
Alice paused, her fingers hovering over a roll of surgical tape. "What was it?"
"Thermite breach," Danny said quietly. "Someone set an incendiary charge on the exterior patio doors to pull the security detail to the perimeter, then slipped inside through the basement entry. Stefano wasn't shot by a sniper from the tree line, Alice. He was shot inside his own house, at three feet distance."
Alice felt a cold trickle of unease trace down her spine. "An insider?"
"A traitor," Danny corrected grimly. "There were forty-two men on the grounds that night. Only six had access to the master wing's security codes. Stefano knows it, I know it, and Carmine knows it."
"Carmine," Alice repeated, remembering the arrogant man with the dark coat who had called her approach to the dog a 'performance' in the great hall. "He didn't seem particularly keen on letting me save your boss."
"Carmine has been Stefano’s second-in-command for ten years," Danny said carefully. "He controls the docks in Fall River and the transport routes through Providence. He’s family... but family in our world is complicated."
"I don't care about your world, Danny," Alice said firmly, grabbing her surgical tray. "I care about the man sitting in that bedroom who needs his wound packing changed before he develops sepsis. Keep your mob politics outside my medical room."
She walked down the long, carpeted hallway toward the master suite, Nero trotting silently at her left hip.
She didn't knock. She pushed the heavy mahogany door open.
Stefano Marquetti sat on the edge of a massive king-sized bed, shirtless, his chest swathed in thick white bandages. He was staring at a set of financial documents held in his right hand while his left arm rested in a sling. Sweat glistened on his broad shoulders, his jaw clamped so tight the muscles in his cheek were throbbing.
"Out," Stefano growled without looking up from his papers. "I told Carmine I don't want to be disturbed until twelve—"
"Carmine isn't here," Alice said, setting the metal tray down on the side table with a crisp clank. "I am. Shirts off, Mr. Marquetti. Time to check the drain output."
Stefano slowly raised his head. His dark eyes met hers, cold and sharp, but as his gaze drifted down to Nero, who immediately sat at the foot of the bed with his tail thudding against the floor, the tension in Stefano’s shoulders eased by a fraction.
"You’re late, Nurse Brennan," Stefano rasped, setting his papers aside.
"I was busy discussing your stubbornness with Danny," Alice replied, unwrapping a pack of sterile scissors. "Unbutton the sling."
Stefano didn't move. He sat there, staring at her with that intense, unreadable gaze that made every man in his organization tremble. "You don't talk to me like the others do."
"The others are terrified you’re going to shoot them," Alice said, stepping between his knees and reaching out to untie the cloth sling around his neck. "I, on the other hand, know that if you shoot me, you’ll have to find someone else who knows how to pack a thoracic drain without causing an air embolism. And frankly, your options in New England are limited."
Stefano’s chest rumbled with a low, quiet laugh—a sound so rare it made Nero tilt his head in surprise.
"You have sharp edges, Alice," Stefano murmured, his dark eyes fixing on her face as she gently peeled away the old, blood-soaked gauze from his left side.
"I work in trauma, Mr. Marquetti," she said softly, her fingers working with steady, gentle precision. "If you don't have sharp edges, the world grinds you into dust."
As she exposed the dark red incision line along his ribs, Stefano winced, his fingers suddenly reaching out and locking around her waist—not to harm her, but to anchor himself against the sharp, burning spike of pain. His warm palm pressed through the fabric of her scrubs, sending a strange, electric current shooting straight up her spine.
Alice froze for a fraction of a second, her breath catching in her throat. She looked down into his face. They were inches apart. She could smell the scent of cedarwood, dark tobacco, and the faint, metallic edge of his skin.
"Does it hurt?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave, losing its clinical sharpness.
"No," Stefano whispered, his dark eyes locked onto her lips. "Not anymore."
Before the moment could stretch any further, the heavy double doors of the master suite were shoved open without warning.
May you like
Carmine Baldi stood in the doorway, two armed guards behind him. His eyes flicked from the blood-stained tray to Alice’s hands resting on Stefano’s chest, then up to Stefano’s hand wrapped around her waist.
"Stefano," Carmine said, his voice dripping with false urgency. "We have a situation at the docks. The federal prosecutors just issued three grand jury subpoenas for the transport manifests... and someone just leaked the original floor plans of the Newport house to the state police."
