Chapter 2 - The Kitchen Table Surgery
The overhead bulb of Mave’s cramped studio apartment flickered, casting erratic shadows across the faded linoleum floor.
She had managed to get him up the three flights of exterior iron stairs by sheer force of will, with the massive Cane Corso—whose name she would later learn was Bruno—acting as a counterweight on the other side. Now, the wounded man sat slumped over a vinyl-topped kitchen chair, his ruined designer suit jacket soaked through with dried blood and rain.
Mave stood over him with a pair of kitchen shears, her hands steady despite the adrenaline still humming through her veins.
"This is going to hurt," she warned. "And since I don't have medical-grade painkillers, you're going to have to settle for biting down on a wooden spoon or swearing at the wallpaper."
The man looked up at her, that single gray eye studying her with clinical detachment. "Cut the fabric," he ordered, his voice strained. "Don't worry about the suit. It's custom."
"Clearly," Mave muttered, sliding the blades of the shears beneath the soaked white cotton of his shirt and cutting upward.
When the fabric parted, Mave had to force down a wave of nausea. A jagged, ugly entry wound sat high on his upper right abdomen, just beneath the ribs. The bleeding had slowed to a sluggish, dark ooze—a sign that internal damage had begun to pool.
Bruno trotted over, pressing his wet snout against the man's bare knee. The man reached down with a soot-stained, heavily bruised hand, his fingers burying deep into the thick fur behind the dog's ears. The tension in the man's broad shoulders eased just a fraction.
"He likes you," Mave observed, pulling a plastic tub from beneath her sink filled with rubbing alcohol, clean dish towels, a spool of heavy fishing line, and a curved upholstery needle she used for mending her own work aprons.
"He has good instincts," the man replied, wincing as Mave poured a generous splash of alcohol directly onto the wound. He didn't cry out, though a muscle in his jaw jumped violently. "Most people run. You dragged me out of an alley."
"I don't like trash left in my workspace," Mave lied smoothly, though her voice lacked conviction. She threaded the fishing line through the needle. "And technically, you were bleeding on my shoes. I'm very particular about my footwear."
He gave a dry, humorless huff that sounded like a cough. "My name is Dante Thorne."
May you like
Mave paused, the needle hovering inches from his torn flesh. She knew that name. Everyone in this God-forsaken city knew that name—usually whispered in dark corners or printed in the local police blotter under headlines about dockyard syndicates, untraceable wealth, and men who vanished without a trace.
"Well, Dante Thorne," Mave said, her voice dropping an octave as she pressed the needle into his skin. "Try not to die on my linoleum. The security deposit is non-refundable."
