15. Leander #3
"You sent Gino to her house," I mutter softly, stepping into the room, leaving red prints on his clean rug.
Vincenzo stammers, his hand darting frantically across the desk toward the snub-nosed revolver. "She... she was supposed to come quietly! Gino was just supposed to fetch her—"
Before his fingers can touch the steel frame of the gun, I close the distance between us.
I catch his right wrist, gripping it with both hands, and execute a brutal, downward twist.
CRACK.
The bones in his wrist snap clean through, the joint bending at a grotesque ninety-degree angle.
Vincenzo lets out a high, screeching scream of agony, dropping to his knees behind the desk, holding his ruined wrist against his chest, tears streaming down his face.
"My hand! Jesus Christ, my hand!" he whimpers, sobbing uncontrollably.
Let me give you more to cry about, dear brother.
I grab him by the collar of his tailored vest, yank his two-hundred-pound frame off the floor, and drive my right fist straight into his face.
The impact shatters his nose instantly, blood spraying across my cheek.
He crashes back against the desk, knocking over a brass lamp and a stack of paper. I step up, catch him by his throat, and drive three fast, merciless knee strikes straight into his left ribcage.
The sound of his ribs fracturing under my weight echoes loudly through the small office.
Vincenzo collapses onto the floor, choking on his own teeth and blood, his hands reaching up weakly to shield his head.
"Please," Vincenzo gasps out, his raspy voice wet and broken as he looks up into my eyes. "Leander... please... we're brothers... Don Roberto will kill you for this—"
"Roberto isn't here, Vincenzo," I tell him cleanly.
I grab him by his hair, pulling his face up until his bloodied, swollen eyes are forced to look directly into mine.
"If you ever speak her name again," I say, my raspy voice dropping into a low, dead register that leaves no room for doubt, "if you even look in the direction of Metro General, I won't stop at your ribs."
I drive my fist straight into his lower jaw one last time.
The blow breaks his jawbone with a loud, sickening snap, knocking him instantly into unconsciousness. His body falls limp onto the blood-stained rug, his breathing ragged, shallow, and bubbling through his broken mouth.
He will live. But he won't walk without a cane for six months, and he will never raise a hand to Kara Rossi again.
I stand over my brother's broken body for thirty seconds, my chest rising and falling in slow, controlled cycles.
I pull a white linen handkerchief from his vest pocket, wipe the blood from my knuckles and palms, and toss the dirty cloth onto his unconscious chest.
I turn around and walk out of the office, stepping over the ruined bodies in the guards' lounge, heading back up the concrete ramp into the quiet night air.
The sky overhead is dark and clear, carrying the crisp, dry chill of early autumn.
I get into my sedan, turn the key in the ignition, and pull out onto the road, leaving the Moretti estate and its broken men behind me.
I don't go directly to Kara's room. Walking through the main doors covered in blood would create chaos and force questions the hospital staff shouldn't be asking.
Instead, I pull into the subterranean staff garage at Metro General and take the private service elevator straight up to the surgical locker room.
The corridor is quiet at three in the morning.
I peel off my ruined suit, seal the blood-soaked fabric inside a biohazard bag to incinerate later, and step into the stainless-steel shower.
I scrub my hands, forearms, face, and hair until the water running down the drain is completely clear.
The bullet graze on my left forearm stings sharply under the hot stream, but I barely feel it.
I clean the minor wound, press a sterile bandage over the skin, and pull on a clean set of dark navy scrubs from my locker, throwing a dark coat over my shoulders.
Only when every physical trace of the estate is gone do I walk down the quiet second-floor hallway toward Trauma Bay One.
I open the door without a sound.
Julian is sitting in the armchair beside her bed, reviewing a chart on his digital tablet while the monitor beeps rhythmically in the low light. Kara is still sleeping peacefully, her left side neatly stitched and bandaged, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady cycles.
Julian looks up, his blue eyes taking in my clean scrubs and wet hair. He doesn't ask a single question. He simply nods once, stands up from the chair, and steps out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him to give us privacy.
I pull the armchair up right beside her bed and sit down in the quiet room.
I reach out, my clean, warm fingers wrapping gently around her hand, resting my chin against my knuckles as I watch her sleep.
My mind is quiet now. The violent storm in my chest is gone. All that remains is the steady rhythm of her breath, and the certainty that when she opens her eyes, I will be right here.