Chapter 2 - The Velvet Cage
The ride in the back of the SUV was silent and suffocating.
The windows were tinted so heavily that the outside world was reduced to a blur of gray rain and streetlights.
Clara sat in the leather seat, running her thumb over the worn handle of her canvas medical bag.
She had packed her best surgical instruments, extra sutures, and every vial of broad-spectrum antibiotics she possessed.
She did not know what condition Victor Kaine was in, but men like Silas did not deploy an army for a simple follow-up appointment.
The convoy crossed the city limits and entered an exclusive, heavily forested estate in the northern hills.
Massive iron gates swung open, revealing a sprawling stone mansion that looked more like a fortress than a home.
Armed guards patrolled the perimeter with dogs.
The SUV stopped at the front steps.
Silas opened the door for her.
"Inside," he instructed.
Clara stepped into a grand foyer paved with black marble and illuminated by a massive crystal chandelier.
The house smelled of expensive cedar, polished wood, and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.
Silas led her down a long hallway toward a set of double oak doors.
He pushed them open.
The room had been transformed into a state-of-the-art medical suite.
Heart monitors beeped frantically in the background.
An IV stand held bags of saline and whole blood.
On the bed in the center of the room lay Victor Kaine.
He was entirely pale, his skin glistening with an unhealthy, feverish sweat.
The wound she had stitched was red, angry, and weeping dark fluid.
"His temperature is 104," a terrified-looking man in a white coat said from the corner.
Clara recognized him immediately as Dr. Aris, a prominent surgeon from the affluent side of the city.
"I tried to administer broad-spectrum antibiotics, but his body is rejecting them," Dr. Aris stammered.
Clara dropped her canvas bag on the steel table.
She walked past the millionaire surgeon and looked down at the mafia boss.
Victor’s eyes fluttered open.
Despite the fever, his gaze was as sharp and predatory as it had been in her kitchen.
"You," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.
"Me," Clara said, pulling on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.
She looked at Dr. Aris.
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"He doesn't have an infection from the wound."
"He was poisoned before he was cut."
