Chapter 5 - The Council of Wolves
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By the third day, the underworld grew restless. A boss who couldn't be seen was a boss who couldn't lead. Rumors were spreading that Vincent was dead, or paralyzed. The rival factions were circling like vultures.
Silas allowed three of the highest-ranking capos into the medical wing to see Vincent. I stood quietly in the corner, holding a clipboard, trying to blend into the shadows. I was used to being invisible. My scrubs were loose, hiding a body I had spent years being ridiculed for. In this room full of tailored suits and lethal arrogance, I felt entirely out of place.
The capos stood at the foot of Vincent’s bed. Vincent was sitting up, his face pale but his expression hardened into the ruthless mask that kept the city in check.
“You look weak, Vince,” one of the capos, a slick man named Marco, sneered slightly. “The Italians are pushing back on the South Side shipments. They know you took three bullets. They think the Mercer family is bleeding out.”
“Let them push,” Vincent said, his voice a low, terrifying rasp. “When I am back on my feet, I will cut their hands off.”
Marco chuckled, a disrespectful sound. He took a step closer to the bed. “Maybe you need help running things until then. Maybe you need to step back.”
Marco leaned forward, placing a hand firmly on the metal railing of the bed, dangerously close to Vincent’s legs.
Vincent’s entire body went rigid. The monitors beside the bed beeped a rapid warning as his heart rate spiked. The physical proximity was triggering him. He was losing control, and Marco knew it. Marco was testing the rumors of his weakness.
I didn't think. I moved.
I stepped between Marco and the bed, shoving the capo’s hand off the railing with my clipboard.
“Step back,” I snapped, my voice ringing with absolute clinical authority. “The patient’s heart rate is elevated. You are interfering with his recovery. Get out of my medical wing.”
Marco glared at me, his eyes dropping to my plain scrubs and my fuller figure, a cruel smirk touching his lips. “Who the hell are you? The kitchen staff?”
Before Marco could say another word, a heavy glass water pitcher shattered against the wall inches from Marco’s head.
Vincent had thrown it with his good arm. His eyes were murderous.
“You speak to my nurse with respect, Marco,” Vincent snarled, the absolute lethal authority of the mafia boss returning in an instant. “Or Silas will remove your tongue. Get out.”
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The capos fled. When the door clicked shut, Vincent fell back against the pillows, breathing heavily. He looked at me, the anger fading into something much softer. “You didn't have to defend me.”
“I’m your nurse,” I said, picking up the broken glass. “Defending you is my job.”
