Chapter 5 - The White Coat and Black Ties
Fourteen months later, the transformation was complete.
Sarah Jenkins walked down the polished corridor of the private medical wing on the fourteenth floor of the Presbyterian Hospital Annex. She no longer wore the black cotton maid's uniform or the stained white apron. She wore a tailored gray silk blouse, slate-colored slacks, and a crisp, pristine white doctor's coat with her name embroidered in silver thread: Dr. S. Jenkins, MD-PhD Candidate.
Thanks to the infinite resources of the Rossi family, her credentials had been fast-tracked through an exclusive, accelerated clinical program. She was no longer a dropout; she was a prodigy.
Her private office at the end of the hall was a masterpiece of minimalist luxury. Behind the mahogany desk sat a secure terminal connected to an encrypted server network. To the public, she was a brilliant young researcher specializing in trauma medicine. To the underworld, her office was the entrance to the "Ghost Clinic."
The door to her office clicked open without a knock.
Sarah didn't look up from her tablet. "I told you, Dominic, you need to knock. My staff thinks we're conducting private research, not running an illegal triage unit."
Dominic Rossi stepped into the room, closing the door silently behind him. He looked spectacular—the past fourteen months had treated him well. The charcoal suits were back, his broad shoulders filling out the fabric perfectly, his icy blue eyes sharp and clear. The only remnant of the blizzard was a slight, nearly imperceptible stiffness in his left hip when the weather turned cold.
"Your staff works for me, Sarah," Dominic said, a lazy, dangerous smile touching his lips. He set a file folder down on her desk. "And you don't run an illegal unit. You run a highly efficient, sovereign medical sanctuary."
"What's this?" she asked, pulling the file toward her.
"Maroni is getting desperate," Dominic said, his tone turning serious as he sat in the leather chair opposite her. "The federal government froze his shipping assets in Newark last week. He knows we leaked the manifests to the FBI. He’s looking to strike back, and he’s targeting our supply lines. We’re expecting a shipment at the Brooklyn docks tonight. It’s going to be a bloodbath, Sarah. I need your clinic ready by midnight."
Sarah opened the file. It contained tactical layouts of the Brooklyn waterfront, estimated casualty projections, and medical supply inventories.
"I've already restocked the O-negative blood reserves," Sarah said, her voice professional, completely devoid of the fear that would have paralyzed her a year ago. "I have two trauma tables prepped and three trusted residency students on standby. If your men bleed, I will sew them back together. But Dominic..."
She paused, looking up from the file to lock eyes with him.
"I don't want you on that dock tonight," she said softly.
Dominic’s expression softened, a rare glimpse of warmth breaking through his arctic exterior. He leaned forward, his large hand resting on the edge of her desk, just inches from hers. "I'm the heir, Sarah. I lead from the front. My father is getting older; the family needs to see that the next Don doesn't hide behind stone walls."
"Your hip hasn't fully calcified around the old injury," she insisted, the doctor in her masking the deeper, more terrifying emotion she was trying to suppress. "If you take another kinetic impact to that pelvic bone, you'll walk with a cane for the rest of your life. Or worse."
May you like
Dominic reached out, his fingers gently brushing against the cuff of her white coat. The touch was brief, but it sent a familiar, electric thrill straight down her spine.
"Then make sure your needles are sharp, Doc," he murmured. "Because I'm not missing this fight. Maroni took my home. Tonight, I take his city."
