Chương 12 - A Golden Cage with Teeth
The private medical wing located beneath Soren’s penthouse in TriBeCa didn’t look like an underground fortress. It looked like a state-of-the-art surgical suite at Johns Hopkins, outfitted with millions of dollars in imported German telemetry monitors and stainless steel cabinetry.
Blythe stood outside Room 3, watching through the reinforced glass window.
Dana lay in the center of the bed, an IV drip hooked into her forearm, her face swollen with purplish-yellow bruises, but her breathing steady and deep under medical sedation. A female doctor in crisp white scrubs was adjusting the infusion pump while two armed guards stood motionless at the door, their hands clasped over tactical holsters.
Blythe opened the door and walked in. The doctor stepped back, nodding politely.
“She’s stable, Ms. Campbell,” the doctor said quietly. “Severe contusions, mild hypothermia, but no intracranial bleeding or organ damage. We have her on low-dose fentanyl for the pain and an antibiotic cocktail to prevent infection from the harbor water. She’ll wake fully within the hour.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Blythe murmured, sitting in the vinyl chair beside the bed.
She took Dana’s bruised, limp hand between both of hers. Guilt felt like broken glass grinding inside her stomach. Dana had nothing to do with Russian cartels, money laundering, or black-market turf wars. Dana was an interior design assistant who liked lavender lattes and bad reality television. She had ended up in an industrial meat freezer because she lived with Blythe.
Dana’s eyelids fluttered. A soft groan escaped her lips before her eyes opened, unfocused and bloodshot.
“Blythe…?” Dana croaked.
“I’m here. I’m right here, sweetie,” Blythe whispered, leaning in and smoothing the wild curls back from Dana’s forehead. “You’re safe. You’re in a private clinic. No one can touch you.”
Dana tried to sit up, but a sharp wince of agony folded her back down onto the pillows. Her gaze darted past Blythe, catching the armed guards standing like gargoyles in the doorway. Terror flashed across her battered face.
“Who… who are they? Blythe, Marko said… he said the man you were with… that he’s the devil. He said he kills people for fun. We have to go to the police. We have to run—”
“Listen to me,” Blythe said firmly, gripping Dana’s hand tighter to anchor her. “The police can’t protect you from these people. Marko is dead, Dana. Soren killed him. He wiped out everyone who touched you.”
Dana stared at her, her pupils dilating in shock. “Soren? The man from the restaurant? Blythe… you’re talking about murder like you’re reading a chart in the triage bay! What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me is that I wanted you to live!” Blythe’s voice cracked, the raw exhaustion finally breaking through her composure. “If Soren hadn’t brought forty armed men to that riverbank, you’d be floating face down in the Atlantic right now. Do you understand that?”
Dana looked away, tears cutting pale trails through the dried salt on her cheeks. “And you? What are you to him now? A hostage? A girlfriend? What kind of monster keeps an armed fortress under an apartment building?”
Before Blythe could answer, the door swung open.
Soren stepped into the room. He had showered and changed. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit, a crisp black dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and polished Oxford shoes. He looked completely civilized, an aristocratic CEO worth billions—until one looked into his eyes, which held the absolute vacuum of a predator.
Dana instinctively recoiled, pulling the hospital blanket up to her chin.
Soren stopped at the foot of the bed. He didn't smile. He didn't offer fake platitudes.
“Miss Miller,” Soren said, his voice deep and commanding. “A Gulfstream G650 is fueling at JFK. By tomorrow morning, you will land in Zurich. You have a penthouse secured in your name, an account with five million Swiss francs, and a private security detail that answers only to Mikhail. You will never see a loan shark, a debt collector, or a Russian syndicate soldier again.”
Dana swallowed hard, glancing between Soren and Blythe. “And Blythe? Does she come with me?”
“Blythe stays,” Soren replied without a fraction of hesitation.
“Why?” Dana’s voice trembled, a mixture of rage and terror. “She’s a nurse! She doesn’t belong in your world!”
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“She chose to stay,” Soren said, his eyes shifting slowly toward Blythe. “And in my world, Miss Miller, once you sit at the king’s table, you don’t leave until the feast is finished.”
***
