Chapter 4 - THE WRONG DOOR
The pounding on the heavy wooden door grew heavier, rattling the cheap brass peephole in its socket.
"Dr. Vance! Open up! We know you're in there!" a gruff, heavy voice shouted from the dimly lit hallway.
Elias slipped the safety off the Smith & Wesson with a silent click beneath the cover of the wool blanket. His eyes locked onto the door, every muscle in his upper body tensing like a coiled spring. He might not have the use of his legs, but at arm's length, a .38 caliber bullet didn't care about spinal cords.
"Stay behind me," Elias muttered, his voice dropping into a lethal, command-grade register that brooked no argument.
Clara didn't cower. But she didn't panic either. She grabbed a heavy, iron-handled skillet off the stove, her eyes narrowing with fierce determination. "This is my building, Mr. Baron. Nobody breaks into my apartment while I'm making coffee."
"Dr. Vance! Open the damn door or we kick it in! Warren sent us! We tracked your license plate from the cemetery!"
Elias froze. The finger resting lightly on the trigger relaxed just a fraction.
Warren.
"Hold your fire," Elias commanded quietly, tossing the blanket aside.
Clara lowered the skillet an inch, raising an eyebrow. "Warren?"
"My second-in-command," Elias said, exhaling slowly. "He's not smart enough to use subtlety, but he's smart enough to check security cameras."
Clara marched over and yanked the door open.
Standing in the cramped hallway was a mountain of a man wearing a soaked leather jacket, his broad shoulders practically blocking out the light. Behind him stood two younger enforcers holding heavy black umbrellas, looking like secret service agents who had lost their way in a gritty Philadelphia slum.
The big man—Warren—peered past Clara, his eyes locking instantly on Elias sitting on the sofa.
Warren let out a breath that sounded like an escaping steam valve. He brushed past Clara without a second glance, marching straight to Elias and dropping heavily onto one knee in front of the wheelchair-bound boss.
"Boss. Sweet Mother of God, we've been tearing the city apart for two hours," Warren rasped, his face a map of genuine panic and fury. "The security cameras at Holy Rude caught that bitch Margot driving out alone. We found your wheelchair abandoned by your old man's grave. I swear to Christ, Boss, just say the word and I'll have her pulled off the turnpike before she reaches New York."
Elias stared down at his most trusted enforcer. The raw, unfiltered loyalty in Warren's eyes was absolute.
"Leave her," Elias said coldly. His voice was completely devoid of emotion, which made it ten times more terrifying. "Margot wanted her life to start again. Let's give her a front-row seat to how mine finishes."
Warren nodded slowly, a grim smile touching the corner of his scarred mouth. "Done. You got it."
Warren then stood up, turning his bulky frame toward Clara, who was standing with her arms crossed, tapping her foot against the linoleum floor. Warren blinked, looking her up and down—from her messy brown hair to the oversized flannel pants Elias was wearing.
"And... who’s the lady?" Warren asked, blinking in pure disbelief. "Did you pick up a civilian while you were freezing to death in a cemetery?"
"Dr. Clara Vance," Elias said, leaning back against the sofa, a strange, unfamiliar smirk touching his lips for the first time in nearly two years. "She’s the one who pulled me out of the mud. And right now, Warren, she’s the only person in this city whose orders I actually give a damn about."
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Clara looked at Elias, her heart skipping a strange, unexpected beat at the intensity in his dark eyes.
"Well, Dr. Vance," Warren said, tipping an imaginary hat with a respectful grin. "Looks like you just adopted a very expensive, very dangerous stray."
