CHAPTER 9
The pristine, white-tiled bathroom of the Atlantic City penthouse had been transformed into a localized trauma ward.
Knox supported the bulk of Zade’s weight as they stumbled across the marble floor. The sheer physical density of the mafia boss was staggering, a massive, unyielding anchor threatening to pull them both down into the bloody water streaking the tiles.
The air in the small room was thick, humid, and heavy.
It smelled of sharp, clinical antiseptic, the acrid, burning tang of adrenaline sweat, and the heavy, undeniable copper reek of fresh blood.
Outside, the storm continued its violent assault against the slatted steel shutters, the wind howling a chaotic, desperate counterpoint to the ragged, dragging sound of their breathing.
Knox steered Zade toward the massive, sunken marble bathtub.
Zade’s legs buckled. The Supreme Leader did not fall gracefully. He collapsed downward, his heavy boots hitting the bottom of the dry tub with a dull, heavy thud. He caught himself on the thick marble rim, his right arm locking rigidly to bear the immense weight of his torso.
Knox dropped to his knees on the bath mat directly in front of Zade. His own hands were shaking violently. The adrenaline crash that had threatened him in the SUV the night before was nothing compared to the absolute, terrifying panic surging through his veins now.
"I need to call Dren," Knox said, his voice entirely breathless, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. He reached toward the pocket of Zade’s ruined tactical jacket, searching for the encrypted satellite phone. "Or Blerim. You need the Syndicate doctor. I'll get Valon to—"
Zade’s right hand shot out, moving with a terrifying, residual speed despite the massive blood loss.
His large, calloused fingers clamped down entirely over Knox’s wrist, pinning Knox’s hand against the heavy, soaked nylon of the tactical jacket. The grip was a steel vise, completely immoveable.
"No," Zade grunted.
The single word was a low, guttural scrape, torn from a throat dry with shock and pain.
Zade tilted his head back, resting his skull against the cold, gray veining of the marble wall behind the tub.
The harsh, overhead vanity lights cast brutal, unforgiving shadows across the sharp angles of his face.
His skin, usually a healthy, olive tone, had leached to a terrifying, ashen gray.
His jaw was locked so tightly the muscles along his cheeks visibly jumped, fighting the agonizing, radiating burn of the high-velocity round buried deep in his deltoid.
"Zade, you are bleeding out," Knox argued, the desperation completely overriding his self-preservation. He tried to pull his wrist free, but Zade’s grip did not yield a fraction of an inch. "I don't know the first thing about field trauma."
Zade lowered his chin. He dragged his heavy, dark eyes open, fixing them directly on Knox’s pale face.
The lightless voids were blown wide, his pupils dilated entirely, swallowing the iris.
The paranoia that defined his existence, the sociopathic armor that kept him alive, was burning white-hot under the pressure of the ambush.
"Besian sold us," Zade rasped, every syllable requiring a physical effort.
The dark blood continued to well from the ragged hole in his left shoulder, soaking through the black tactical jacket, pooling heavy and thick on the white marble floor.
"He walked us directly into a kill box. He is a senior capo.
If Besian is compromised, the entire chain of command is compromised. "
Zade leaned forward an inch, his voice dropping into a localized, intense vibration that commanded Knox’s total auditory focus.
"No one comes to this location, Knox. No doctor. No extraction team. We operate completely blind until I find the leak."
Knox stared at the absolute, terrifying finality in Zade’s expression. The mafia boss would rather bleed to death in a bathtub than expose his flank to another potential traitor.
Knox swallowed the frantic, rising bile in his throat. He forced his panic down, locking it away behind the same psychological walls he had built to survive his father.
"Okay," Knox breathed. He stopped fighting the grip on his wrist. He held Zade’s gaze, offering absolute, unvarnished compliance. "Okay. No doctors. Just us."
Zade stared at him for one long, heavy second. Then, slowly, the bruising pressure on Knox’s wrist eased. Zade released him, his hand falling heavily back against the marble rim of the tub.
Knox moved instantly.
He didn't waste time asking for permission. He reached up, his shaking fingers finding the heavy, plastic zipper track of Zade’s tactical jacket. The fabric was stiff, completely saturated with thick, cooling blood. Knox hauled the zipper down, parting the heavy nylon.
He moved to the buttons of the charcoal dress shirt beneath.
His hands were clumsy, slipping on the slick, metallic buttons.
He abandoned the attempt entirely. Knox grabbed the lapels of the shirt and yanked with brutal, frantic force, tearing the fabric open, the buttons popping violently off the thread and scattering across the tiles.
He peeled the ruined fabric away from Zade’s skin.
Knox’s breath stalled.
The left side of Zade’s torso was a horrific, bloody mess.
The high-velocity round had struck high on the deltoid, tearing through the heavy, corded muscle just below the collarbone.
The entry wound was a jagged, dark hole, weeping a steady, terrifying stream of crimson down the massive expanse of Zade’s chest. The skin surrounding the impact site was already swelling, turning a dark, angry purple.
But it was the rest of Zade’s torso that stole Knox’s oxygen.
Beneath the blood, Zade Prescott was entirely covered in the violent, permanent history of his ascension.
Heavy, intricate black ink crawled across his pectoral muscles, wrapping around his thick biceps, and disappearing down the hard, chiseled ridges of his abdomen.
The tattoos were not decorative; they were aggressive, tribal markings mixed with the harsh, archaic symbols of the Albanian underworld.
And layered beneath the ink were the scars.
Knox tracked a jagged, white line slicing diagonally across Zade’s lower ribs.
He saw the faint, circular puckers of old gunshot wounds on Zade’s right hip and the thick, raised keloid tissue of a blade slash across his collarbone.
The Supreme Leader was a physical monument to survival, a man who had bled for every inch of his empire.
Knox forced his eyes back to the active wound.
"It didn't exit," Knox said, his voice sounding hollow, terrified by the clinical observation. He pressed his fingers gently against the heavy muscle at the back of Zade’s shoulder. There was no exit wound. "The bullet is still in the muscle."
Zade gritted his teeth, a low, animalistic hiss escaping the tight lock of his jaw as Knox’s fingers probed the torn tissue.
"I know," Zade ground out. He opened his eyes, the dark voids locking entirely onto Knox’s face. "You have to pull it out, Knox. The medical kit is under the sink. Use the forceps."
Knox’s stomach rolled violently. He pulled his hands back, staring at the slick, red blood coating his own fingertips. The adrenaline was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread.
"I can't," Knox whispered, shaking his head. He looked down at the wound, then back up at Zade. "I'm a lawyer, Zade. Not a surgeon. I'm going to tear the artery. I'm going to kill you."
Zade did not yell. He did not issue a violent threat.
He leaned forward, shifting his weight off the marble wall. The movement drove a fresh wave of blood from the wound, but Zade entirely ignored it. He reached out with his uninjured right arm. He did not grab Knox’s wrist this time. He cupped the back of Knox’s neck.
His large, calloused hand slid into Knox’s damp hair, entirely possessing, entirely grounding. Zade’s thumb rested against the frantically beating pulse point directly beneath Knox’s ear.
"I trust you," Zade said.
The words were not a tactical manipulation. They were a profound, agonizingly vulnerable admission. The Supreme Leader, a man who had just watched his own capo lead him into a slaughterhouse, was placing the entirety of his survival into the hands of the prosecutor’s son.
The absolute weight of that trust hit Knox like a physical blow, shattering the remaining panic.
Knox inhaled deeply, a long, harsh drag of the heavy, copper-scented air. He nodded once, a sharp, definitive jerk of his chin.
He pulled away from Zade’s grounding touch, rising to his feet. He moved to the vanity, ripping open the heavy, black nylon medical kit stored beneath the sink. He tore the sterile packaging off a heavy set of surgical forceps, a bottle of industrial antiseptic, and a thick stack of gauze.
He returned to the bathtub, dropping to his knees.
He stood directly between Zade’s spread knees, completely violating any remaining physical boundaries. The proximity was absolute. Zade’s heavy thighs bracketed Knox’s hips, locking him firmly in place.
Knox poured the clear, stinging antiseptic directly over the wound.
Zade’s entire body went rigid. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, echoing off the white tiles. The muscles in his massive chest and abdomen violently contracted, fighting the searing, chemical burn.
Knox didn't hesitate. He couldn't afford to let the hesitation return.
He leaned in close, his face mere inches from the bloody ruin of Zade’s shoulder. He gripped the heavy, stainless steel forceps. He pressed the tips directly into the jagged, torn tissue.
Zade’s reaction was instantaneous and entirely involuntary.