Chapter 1 - The Man Behind Curtain Four
At Mercy General, the night shift smelled of antiseptic, burnt coffee, and rain carried in on people’s coats.
I had been on my feet for sixteen hours when Dr. Patel slid a chart across the nurses’ station.
“Curtain four,” he said. “Side wound. He won’t tell registration how he got it.”
“I’m due to leave in twenty minutes.”
“I know.”
He glanced at the crowded waiting room, then at me.
“Just take a look.”
Behind the curtain, two men in dark suits stood on either side of the bed. Between them sat a third man with a white shirt pressed to his ribs. Blood had soaked through the fabric and darkened his fingers. His jacket was folded beside him, neat as if he had come to a meeting.
“I asked for a doctor,” he said.
“Dr. Patel is here if you need him. I’m Emma Shaw, the nurse assigned to you.” I set my supplies on the counter. “May I see the wound?”
He looked at the two men.
“Wait outside.”
They obeyed, though one lingered long enough to make sure I noticed him.
I washed my hands again and pulled on gloves.
The patient watched me ease his shirt away from his skin.
The cut was deep along the ribs, its edges clean and still bleeding.
“What caused this?” I asked.
“A knife.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago.”
I pressed gauze against the cut and reached for the call button.
He caught my wrist before I could use it.
“No one else.”
I looked at his hand until he released me.
“I need Dr. Patel to examine this before you leave. You also need to tell him about any other injuries.”
An older scar crossed the skin just above the cut.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
His answer came too easily.
While I cleaned the wound, he noticed the tremor in my fingers.
“Are you frightened?”
“I’ve been awake too long.”
I checked the dressing supplies, buying myself a moment.
“And you’re losing blood on my exam bed.”
To my surprise, his mouth moved as though he might smile.
I offered local anesthetic.
He refused, then accepted after I told him he would have to hold still for the stitches.
When I finished, I secured a dressing and wrote down the instructions he would need to take home.
Dr. Patel came in at my request.
The patient answered his questions briefly and declined further tests.
I stood beside the cart, frustrated by how little we could determine from a wound and a story he barely told.
Before leaving, he pressed several folded bills toward me.
“I can’t take that.”
“Then give it to the hospital.”
“The hospital can take a donation through the front desk.”
I handed the money back.
“Keep the dressing dry. Come back if you develop a fever, redness, or worsening pain.”
He put the bills away.
“You’ll know if I do.”
I watched him pull on his jacket.
“You can ask for any nurse on duty.”
“I know.”
He paused at the curtain.
“Thank you, Emma.”
I had not given him my surname.
I glanced at the chart where it was printed beneath my name and told myself that was how he knew.
At six, I clocked out beneath a gray morning sky and took the bus home.
I was asleep when pounding at my apartment door woke me.
The microwave clock read 4:37 p.m.
Through the peephole, I saw one of the men who had stood beside the hospital bed.
“Miss Shaw,” he called. “Mr. Russo needs you. His wound has become infected.”
Then a phone buzzed against the hallway floor.
He had slid it under my door.
I stared at it.
The screen showed a photograph.
It was me.
Taken outside Mercy General that morning.
Taken from across the street.
A second photograph appeared.
My apartment building.
A third.
My father's old house in Maple Ridge.
My stomach dropped.
The man outside spoke again.
“Please pick up the phone.”
I did not.
Instead, I stepped backward.
My apartment suddenly felt too small.
I grabbed the phone from the floor.
There was only one message.
COME ALONE.
Another followed.
DO NOT CALL THE POLICE.
Then the elevator at the end of the hallway chimed.
The man outside my door looked toward it.
His expression changed.
I heard footsteps.
Not one person.
Several.
The hallway filled with the muted rhythm of dress shoes.
The man at my door put one hand inside his coat.
I backed away.
Then someone knocked on the apartment door opposite mine.
A woman answered.
The next sound was a scream.
I froze.
The man outside my door turned sharply.
“Damn it.”
He knocked again.
“Emma, listen to me. You're in danger.”
“So are you,” I whispered.
I ran to the kitchen.
My apartment had a fire escape outside the window.
I pushed the window up.
Cold rain hit my face.
Before I could climb out, the front door of my apartment shook under a heavy impact.
“Emma!”
Another impact.
The frame cracked.
I climbed through the window.
My hand slipped on the wet metal.
I almost fell.
Then I heard a deep voice behind me.
“Stop.”
I turned.
The man from the hallway stood inside my apartment.
He had somehow opened the damaged door.
He raised both hands.
“I'm not here to hurt you.”
“Then why are there men in my building?”
“Because they aren't mine.”
“Who are they?”
He didn't answer.
A second impact echoed downstairs.
The man cursed.
Then he pulled a gun.
I screamed.
He pointed it toward the hallway, not me.
Three shots exploded.
The apartment filled with smoke and ringing silence.
He looked at me.
“Now you understand why you have to come with us.”
“I don't know you.”
“My name is Marco Bellini.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Then he said:
“Adrian Russo.”
I stared at him.
The wounded man from the hospital.
“The man you stitched tonight is one of the most powerful men in this city.”
I shook my head.
“I don't care.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because twenty minutes ago, five armed men entered Mercy General asking for the nurse who treated him.”
The rain ran down my face.
“I didn't tell anyone.”
“I know.”
“Then how did they know?”
Marco looked toward the apartment door.
“That's what we're trying to find out.”
He held out his hand.
“Come with me.”
I hesitated.
Then I heard another scream from the hallway.
I took his hand.
We climbed onto the fire escape.
By the time we reached the alley, black SUVs were waiting.
One opened.
I stopped dead.
Adrian Russo sat inside.
He was wearing a black shirt.
His wound was freshly dressed.
His skin looked pale.
But his eyes were exactly as I remembered.
Calm.
Cold.
Focused.
He looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
I stared at him.
“For what?”
“For bringing this to your door.”
“You did.”
“Yes.”
I climbed into the vehicle.
“Then you're going to tell me everything.”
He nodded.
“That is why I came.”
The doors locked.
The SUV pulled away.
Adrian looked through the rain-streaked glass.
“Two hundred men are currently surrounding your house.”
I turned toward him.
“What?”
“By the time we return, they will know I have you.”
My heart raced.
“Then where are we going?”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“To the one place where no one can reach you.”
“Where?”
“My home.”
I swallowed.
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn't.”
“Then why am I going?”
“Because everyone else hunting you wants you dead.”
“And you?”
May you like
His expression softened for half a second.
“I need you alive.”
