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Bruno’s voice is conversational, almost bored.
“I’ll answer your questions because I’m in a good mood tonight. So, yes, Mason set him up and fed him information that led him to his death. The detective gave us his location, schedule, and the intel we needed to make it clean. Then Matteo found our procurement ledgers. Included were twelve months of transactions linking our operation to four hospital systems in three states, every name and dollar amount documented.”
He shrugs noncommittally.
“We ran out of time and had to remove him from the board. He was still breathing when my men were done with him, last I heard. Made it as far as your ER and kept insisting you’d save him.”
The grief moves through my body like a shock wave, pressing against the back of my throat, then behind my eyes. I let it sit there. I don’t push it down because that would cost energy, and I’m focused on grinding the strap against the table.
“Matteo was smarter than you, you know,” I bite out the words. “He was careful. You’ll never find those files.”
“Oh, I’ll get the files and your husband.” Bruno leans close enough that I can smell the starch in his coat and the coffee on his breath. “You’ll tell me where your brother hid them. And Marco will come for you because that’s what love drives men to do. They become stupid and predictable.”
He tilts his head. “The Volkovs have wanted your husband for months. Not for his fists, but for what he carries in his head. Every security protocol, every safe house location, every name in the Benedetti network. Once I hand him over, they’ll extract what they need, and I’ll collect what I’m owed. By the time Enzo realizes his head of security has been turned inside out, the entire Benedetti operation will be compromised beyond repair.”
I grit my teeth. “I can’t tell you anything because even I don’t know where the files are.”
His eyes flare. “Wrong answer. You don’t want me jogging your memories, girl.”
“I don’t know.” My voice shakes, tears gathering in my eyes.
“You do.” He picks up the syringe again and tests the needle against his thumb. “And one way or another, you’re going to tell me.”
I watch his hands, his rhythm, his patterns. Men like Bruno always think they know how much pain a woman can endure or how much pressure they can apply.
I’m going to show him exactly how wrong he is.
“The files are in a safety deposit box.” My voice hitches and stumbles as I sell the performance. “In a bank in the city…one of those old places that doesn’t ask questions. I have the key well hidden in my apartment.”
Bruno brings his face closer, his eyes hungry. “You’re going to have to tell me the location. Otherwise, I’ll force it out of you.”
As his threat hangs in the air, the strap gives way. My hand is free.
My face fills his whole field of vision, and I take the opportunity to deal some damage. My eyes flick to the side, and before he even realizes what’s happening, my fingers snatch a scalpel from his instrument tray. I swing my arm in a wide arc and drive the blade into the meat of his forearm.
He unleashes a satisfying scream. Not quite satisfying enough after what he did to Matteo, but there’s no time for more.
Before he can recover, I tear the second strap loose and jump off the table. I scramble for the door in my ripped gown, and my bare feet slap on the floor. Behind me, Bruno shouts for guards, his voice high with pain and fury. I sprint through the corridors, my gaze darting around for any way out of this hell.
A storage room appears on my left. The door’s ajar, and light spills through. I shove it open and freeze.
The room is kept at a near-freezing temperature, cold enough that my breath clouds in front of my face. Medical-grade coolers line the walls in stacked rows, each one humming with its own power supply and labeled with a date, a blood type, and an organ name in Bruno’s meticulous handwriting. Kidneys. Livers. Hearts. The clinical precision of it churns my stomach more than gore ever could.
This isn’t chaos but inventory. A supply chain managed with the same careful efficiency as any hospital organ bank, except the donors never consented and never walked out.
The doctor in me registers the setup instantly. This is temperature-controlled cold storage with a forty-eight-hour viability window at most, and its purpose is clear. Bruno’s buyers are waiting for these deliveries, and the clock on every cooler is already ticking.
Behind the last row of coolers, I spot a small window frosted with condensation but wide enough for me to squeeze through.
I grab a chair and swing it at the glass, which cracks but doesn’t break. When I swing again, it cracks a little bit more. On the third swing, the window shatters. I climb through the threshold even as glass cuts into my skin, focusing on the night air on my face.
A vicelike grip closes around my legs, and my body is dragged backward.
“No!” I fight, claw, bite, and taste blood in my mouth that isn’t mine. “Let go of me!”
I’ve been caught by one of his men. I drive my elbow toward my assailant, but he catches my arm and throws me across the room. My back hits the coolers, and I fall to the floor because of the impact.
Bruno appears in the doorway with another guard behind him, his arm wrapped in a bloody towel, his face twisted with more fury than I’ve ever seen.
