Chapter 6 - Whispers in the Smoke
The electric saw hummed with a high-pitched whine, slicing through the heavy fiberglass plaster of my makeshift cast. Julian’s hands were steady, practiced in the dark arts of underground medicine where every patient was a criminal, a fugitive, or a corpse waiting to happen.
“Hold still,” he muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “If this blade slips, you’re looking at permanent nerve damage in your left hand.”
“Just cut the damn thing off, Julian,” I hissed through my teeth, leaning my head back against the faux-leather upholstery of the van. Outside, the tail lights of Gabriel’s armored SUVs had already vanished into the swirling white blur of the blizzard. The icy wind battered the side of the vehicle, reminding me that while my husband was speeding toward a bloodbath at the docks, I was sitting in a smuggler’s ride trying to fix my own bones before anyone noticed my absence.
The cracked cast fell apart in two heavy pieces, dropping onto the rubber floor mat with a dull thud. My forearm was bruised a violent shade of indigo, swollen and misshapen where the bone had knitted improperly under the pressure of the previous night’s chaos. Julian whistled softly, shining a penlight over the angry red skin.
“Clean break of the radius, just like I thought,” he said, reaching for a fresh roll of fiberglass and a lightweight stabilizing brace. “You’ve got a high pain tolerance, Clare. Most women of your social standing would have fainted at the first snap.”
“Most women of my social standing aren’t married to Gabriel Russo,” I retorted dryly, wincing as he began wrapping the cool, damp material around my arm. “When your bed partner has a body count higher than a small army, you learn how to ignore a little physical discomfort.”
“And what about the emotional discomfort?” Julian asked quietly, his eyes searching my face through the dim amber light of the van. “Gabriel treats you like an expensive piece of furniture. A trophy wife bought to appease the old families. Why risk your neck pulling him out of a burning warehouse? Why not just let the fire finish what Viktor started?”
I looked out the frosted window, watching the snowflakes dance wildly in the headlights of the van. It was a fair question. For two years, I had played my part to perfection: the silent, elegant shadow gliding through the background of high-stakes poker games and blood-soaked summit meetings. I had accepted the cold distance, the lack of warmth, the golden cage.
“Because if Gabriel dies, the syndicate doesn't dissolve—it gets worse,” I said, my voice dropping into a cold, hard register. “Leo Vain takes over. And Leo doesn't just want territory; he wants absolute, unchecked cruelty. Under Gabriel, there are rules. Under Leo, there’s only slaughter. Protecting Gabriel isn't about love, Julian. It’s about survival.”
Julian finished securing the Velcro strap on the new, lighter brace and stepped back, wiping his hands on a sterile towel. “Well, your survival just got a hell of a lot more complicated. If Leo figures out you were at the warehouse, he’ll use it to turn Gabriel against you. Men like your husband don't like secrets, and they especially don't like being indebted to their wives.”
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“Leo won't say anything yet,” I said, sliding my arm back into the sleeve of my heavy parka. “He’s too busy trying to frame the Northside crew for tonight’s hit on Elias. But he’s playing a dangerous game, and I intend to catch him before he cuts all our throats.”
I tossed a heavy envelope of cash onto the center console—payment for the medical supplies and his silence—opened the van door, and stepped out into the freezing gale without waiting for a reply. The wind slammed the door shut behind me as the vehicle melted back into the Chicago night.
