Chapter 2 - Shadows in the East Wing
Tommy Lombardi didn’t wait for an answer. The handle of the east wing door rattled, the heavy brass mechanism turning with a sickening, mechanical click.
Declan’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He looked at Norah, his gaze fierce and uncompromising.
“Under the sink,” he ordered in a harsh whisper, pointing toward a heavy stainless-steel supply cabinet tucked into the corner of the medical room. “Now.”
“I can’t just hide—”
“If Tommy sees you in here patching up a bullet wound, you won't live to see the sunrise, Norah. Move!”
Panic overrode hesitation. Norah scrambled across the slick tile floor, ducking beneath the counter and squeezing into the tight, dark space beside a stack of extra oxygen tanks and chemical bins. She pulled her knees to her chest, biting her lower lip hard enough to taste copper, and stared through the narrow gap in the cabinet doors.
The heavy oak door swung inward.
Tommy Lombardi stepped into the harsh fluorescent light of the medical suite. He was impeccably dressed in a charcoal tailored suit, a diamond cufflink catching the overhead glare as he adjusted his sleeve. His slicked-back dark hair and sharp, aristocratic features gave him the look of a corporate executive, masking the ruthless enforcer beneath.
Tommy stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes swept across the room, noting the broken glass on the floor, the bloodstained gauze scattered near the cabinet, and Declan slumped against the steel unit with a pistol resting casually—too casually—near his leg.
A slow, knowing smile curved across Tommy’s mouth.
“Well, well,” Tommy said, his voice smooth as silk. “Word on the street was that you took a bad turn after the meeting at Pier 14. I didn't realize you were running a private hospital suite right here in the manor.”
Declan didn't move. He kept his eyes locked on Tommy, his posture radiating cold, dangerous control despite the blood soaking his side.
“You make a habit of walking into my private quarters without an invitation, Tommy?” Declan asked, his voice steady, though a fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead.
“Only when the business of the family is at stake,” Tommy replied, taking a slow step forward, his polished leather shoes crunching on a fragment of broken glass. He looked down at the blood on the floor, then back at Declan. “Looks like you took more than just a bad turn. Who did this to you? The Russo crew? Or one of your own men testing the waters?”
“My health is my concern,” Declan said coldly. “The Pier 14 manifests are on my desk downstairs. Review them and clear out.”
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Tommy didn't move toward the desk. Instead, he crouched down slightly, picking up a piece of the bloodstained gauze between two manicured fingers. He sniffed it, then dropped it with a clinical disinterest.
“You’re bleeding out, Declan,” Tommy said softly, standing back up and towering over the wounded boss. “And an empire doesn't run itself while its king is rotting on a bathroom floor. It’s time for a transition.”
