Chapter 3 - The Surgeon’s Secret
The video on Adrian’s phone played on a silent, looping nightmare.
In the dim fluorescent glow of the hospital’s restricted service corridor, David Vance’s fingers slipped the heavy envelope of cash into the surgeon’s pocket. Dr. Alistair Vance—no relation to the brutal family, but sharing their utter lack of a soul—accepted the bribe without hesitation. In return, he passed a small, lead-lined glass vial into David’s palm.
Adrian’s blood turned to liquid nitrogen.
He didn't need to be a forensic toxicologist to know what was inside that vial. It was a fast-acting, untraceable cardiac suppressant. Administered through an IV line, it would mimic a sudden, catastrophic heart failure or post-traumatic shock arrest within hours—ensuring that Clara would quietly pass away in her sleep, leaving behind no suspicious wounds, no second autopsies, and no surviving witnesses to the family's brutality.
They hadn't just beaten her to the brink of death at home. They had paid the lead surgeon to finish the job inside the ICU under the guise of medical failure.
Adrian’s gaze snapped up from the screen. Across the hallway, Dr. Alistair Vance was walking out of the nurses' station holding a fresh chart, humming softly to himself as he headed directly back toward Room 304.
Marcus Vance, still reeling from the sudden destruction of his entire corporate empire, noticed Adrian’s sudden, terrifying shift in posture.
“Adrian,” Marcus stammered, raising a trembling hand in a desperate attempt at appeasement. “Look, whatever misunderstandings we’ve had... we can talk about this. Family is—ah!”
Adrian didn't punch him. He didn't even raise his voice. He simply reached out with lightning speed, gripped Marcus by the throat with one hand, and slammed him against the concrete wall with enough force to crack the drywall. The eight brothers froze in absolute terror, not a single one daring to step forward as the charcoal-suited guards from the SUVs smoothly drew suppressed firearms from beneath their jackets.
“If my wife’s heart stops beating tonight,” Adrian whispered, his voice dangerously quiet, vibrating with a wrath that could level cities, “every single one of you won't just lose your money. You will beg for the sweet release of death before I am finished digging your graves.”
Adrian released his grip, letting Marcus slump gasping to the floor.
Without sparing another glance at the terrified cowards, Adrian spun on his heel and strode down the corridor toward Room 304, moving with the cold, lethal grace of an apex predator guarding its wounded mate.
Dr. Alistair Vance reached the door of Clara’s room, swiped his ID badge, and pushed it open. He stepped inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind him. He walked over to the IV pole hanging beside Clara’s bed, pulled a syringe from his pocket, and prepared to draw the lethal compound from a concealed ampoule.
He never heard the door open behind him.
A heavy, gloved hand suddenly clamped around the back of the doctor’s neck, slamming his face downward onto the stainless steel tray of surgical instruments with a deafening crash. Scalpels, syringes, and metal bowls scattered across the floor.
Dr. Alistair let out a gurgling shriek, but it was instantly stifled as Adrian’s knee drove into the small of his back, pinning him helplessly against the floor tiles.
“M-Mr. Moretti!” the doctor choked out, blood pouring from his split lip as he clawed desperately at the floor. “What are you doing? I’m trying to save her! Let me go!”
Adrian knelt beside him, his expression devoid of any human mercy. He reached out, picked up the glass vial that had fallen from the doctor's pocket, and held it inches from the man's terrified eyes.
“Save her?” Adrian’s voice was a lethal whisper. “Is that what you call injecting a cardiac arrest agent into her IV line for twenty thousand dollars in cash?”
Color drained entirely from the doctor’s face. He froze, realizing the game was up. “I... I was forced! The Vances said if I didn't—they threatened my children—”
“You should have worried more about what I would do,” Adrian interrupted softly.
He didn't kill him right there—not in the room with Clara. Instead, Adrian pressed a small button on his collar communicator. Two men in dark suits slipped silently through the ICU door like wraiths.
“Take him down to the basement morgue holding room,” Adrian ordered coldly. “Strip him of his license, his assets, and his freedom. Ensure he spends the rest of his natural life reflecting on the consequences of medical malpractice.”
“Yes, boss,” one of the operatives muttered, hauling the weeping, thrashing doctor to his feet and dragging him silently out of the room.
Adrian stood alone in the quiet hum of the intensive care unit.
He turned slowly toward the bed. Clara was still asleep, trapped in the heavy, chemically induced slumber required to manage her horrific injuries. Her chest rose and fell in a shallow, painful rhythm.
Adrian walked slowly to the bedside, pulled up a metal chair, and sat down. He gently reached out, taking her cold, bruised hand in his own large palm, lifting it to press a tender kiss against her knuckles.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he murmured, a solitary tear finally breaking free and tracking down his cheek. “I tried to bury the monster. I tried to live in the light for you. But the world wouldn't let us be.”
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He raised his free hand and tapped his encrypted comms piece once more.
“Bring the rest of the family to me,” Adrian commanded, his voice echoing with absolute finality. “Every single cousin, uncle, and enforcer who raised a hand against my wife. Pack them into the shipping containers they thought they owned. We are leaving the city tonight.”
