He Was Holding His Mistress’s Hand When His Wife Was Wheeled Past Alone, and the Note in Her Pocket Changed Everything Adrian Vale was holding another woman’s hand when his wife came through the hospital doors covered in blood.

At 2:15 A.M., the fifth-floor hallway of the ICU wing was dim and deserted.

The night nurse had stepped away to check on a patient down the hall.

A man dressed in scrubs, carrying a clipboard and wearing a surgical mask, stepped out of the service stairwell. He walked quietly toward Room 3, his hand tucked deep inside his wide medical coat, gripping a suppressed pistol.

He reached the handle of Room 3 and pushed the door open softly.

The room was dark, except for the blue glow of the heart monitor.

The figure in scrubs raised his weapon, stepping toward the bed.

Suddenly, a heavy, iron-like hand clamped over his mouth from behind, dragging him backward into the dark bathroom of the suite before he could make a sound.

CRACK!

Adrian slammed the assassin's wrist against the marble sink, disarming him instantly. Before the man could react, Adrian drove a heavy blow into his throat, dropping him to the floor.

Marcus stepped out of the shadows, securing the hitman with heavy zip-ties and stuffing a rag into his mouth.

"That's one," Marcus whispered. "The other three are locked in the service elevator downstairs."

Adrian picked up the suppressed pistol from the floor, ejected the magazine, and cleared the chamber with practiced efficiency. He looked down at the unconscious hitman with cold indifference.

"Drag him out through the basement," Adrian ordered. "Hand him to Detective Vance."

Adrian walked out of the bathroom, washing his hands thoroughly under the warm tap water. He stepped back to Elena's bedside, taking his seat once more in the quiet room.