The sound of boots echoed down the long hospital corridor like distant thunder rolling in off the river. Nurses froze mid-step, orderlies pressed themselves against the walls, and even the patients in wheelchairs turned their heads away as though looking at the storm would make it strike harder. It wasn't an invasion. It was William Varkis come to see his son.
The sea of white coats and drab uniforms parted without a word. Six feet three of him filled the hallway the way a battleship fills a narrow strait. Grey hair swept back, an anchor beard framing a jaw that looked carved from granite. Thick brows shadowed eyes the color of storm clouds before lightning. He wore a long black overcoat over his shoulder, the kind that brushed the floor when he walked, a heavy gold watch chain draped across the buttons of his grey vest. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt held by a black silk tie. In his right hand, a tall ebony walking stick topped with a gold hawk—wings spread, talons curled—his thumb and forefinger stroking the bird's wings absently, the only sign the rage hadn't yet boiled over into something irreparable.
From the opposite end of the corridor came three men. The two in black flanked the one in front, who wore a well-cut brown suit, high-waisted trousers, and a shirt so tight across the chest it looked ready to split. Buzz-cut hair, a neat, pointed moustache, twenty-nine years old and already carrying the weight of a man twice that. Jeremy. Valentino's right hand. His most trusted shadow.
Right now, he looked like a ghost wearing someone else's skin—face pale as chalk, dark hollows under his eyes, guilt written so plainly across his features it might as well have been tattooed there. He stopped a respectful distance away and lowered his head.
William's voice rolled out low, the kind of quiet that makes the air itself feel heavier.
"Where is he?"
Jeremy's hands clasped tight in front of him, knuckles white. "In the operating theatre, sir."
William exhaled through his nose, a sharp hiss. His eyes closed for one slow count, then opened again. The walking stick tapped once against the tiled floor, a sound like a judge's gavel.
Then his free hand shot out.
Fingers like iron clamped around Jeremy's throat and slammed him back against the wall. The younger man's spine cracked against the tall wooden paneling; a choked gasp tore from his lips. William closed the gap until their faces were inches apart.
"My son is in the operating theatre," William said, each word deliberate, measured, lethal. "Do you see anything wrong with that picture?"
Jeremy's feet scrabbled an inch above the floor. His face was turning the color of old bruises. "It's my fault," he rasped. "I deserve to die."
"You do." William's fingers tightened. The skin around Jeremy's throat blanched white under the pressure. "You were supposed to be at his side. How did those Draven swine get close enough to touch him? How?"
"It's my fault," Jeremy managed again, voice thinning to a thread as his lungs screamed for air.
The answer was insufficient. William's arm flexed; he hurled Jeremy sideways. The man crashed over a waiting bench, rolled, and slammed his temple against the metal armrest. A bright line of blood opened across his forehead, dark and wet, trickling down into his eye. He gasped, coughed, tried to rise.
William flicked his hand as though shaking off something foul. "I'll deal with you after I've settled accounts with the pigs."
The commotion had drawn a knot of doctors and nurses. One of them—a thin man in a white coat, stethoscope dangling—recognized the figure in black and nearly dropped to his knees.
"Mr. Varkis!"
William turned. The walking stick tapped once more. "My son," he said. It wasn't a question. It was an order carved in stone. "He will be all right. Yes?"
The doctor swallowed hard enough to make his Adam's apple bob. "I—we're doing everything possible, sir. I'll check his chart at once. The surgeons are the best we have."
William didn't blink. "See that they are."
The doctor scurried away like a man who'd just been handed a live grenade.
Jeremy pushed himself up on trembling arms, blood streaking his face, suit rumpled and torn at the shoulder. He stayed on one knee, head bowed.
William turned to the knot of men who had followed him in. Broad shoulders, hard eyes, coats cut to hide iron. One stepped forward without being summoned. He was a mature-looking one, clearly the same age as William. White hair, as if age had taken a toll on him, a clean shave that revealed the wrinkle on his face far too clearly. His name was Joshua, he was second in command to William.
"Orders, master?" he said, lowering his head.
William's voice dropped to something cold and final, the tone a man uses when he's already decided how many graves need digging.
"Blood. I want Draven blood. Start with Florek. Leave none breathing."
The man dipped his head once. "Yes, sir."
He turned on his heel. Half a dozen others peeled away from the group and followed him down the corridor, boots striking the tiles in perfect time.
William stood alone for a moment in the suddenly quiet hallway. The hawk on his walking stick caught the overhead light, gleaming gold. His thumb traced one wing again—slow, almost tender.
Then he straightened his coat, turned, and walked toward the double doors marked OPERATING THEATRE.
Behind him, Jeremy stayed on the floor, blood dripping onto the tiles, listening to the echo of boots fade into the distance.
The hospital building was still under heavy rain. The eastern part of the city of Venetia was consumed by depressing rain, adding to the fear of the citizens of the area. No one knew when the next war between the two gangs would break out, and their livelihood would be trashed between the forces of the two sides, ready to drink each other's blood.
Joshua stepped out of the hospital doors into the grey, dripping afternoon. The rain had eased to a steady, sullen patter, but the air still hung heavy with it. His men moved as one black umbrellas snapping open in perfect unison, forming a dark canopy that swallowed the light from the streetlamps. Headlights cut through the gloom ahead, engines idling low and patient. The long black cars waited like obedient beasts, doors already held open by gloved attendants.
Joshua paused at the threshold of the lead car, one foot on the running board, when he heard the quick, splashing footsteps behind him. Familiar. Urgent.
He turned.
A young man approached through the drizzle—no umbrella, hair plastered dark against his scalp, black coat soaked through at the shoulders. Twenty-five, broad-shouldered, built like a fighter who hadn't yet learned to lose. He slowed as he reached the group, bowed once— eep, respectful and the nearest man immediately shifted his umbrella to cover him.
"Father."
The word came out breathless, almost ragged.
Joshua's brow lifted a fraction. "What is it, Michael?"
Michael parted his lips, hesitated, then pressed them shut again. His eyes flicked to the ring of men standing at rigid attention around them—silent, straight-backed, ears undoubtedly sharp despite the rain drumming on canvas. Without another word, he stepped closer, drawing Joshua gently aside until they stood together beneath the shelter of a single large black umbrella.
Only then did he speak, voice pitched for the two of them alone.
"I just spoke to the doctor. Val might not make it."
Joshua's expression remained unchanged, stone carved from stone. But Michael's face betrayed nothing close to grief. No tremor in the jaw, no shadow in the eyes. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched, the barest hint of something satisfied.
Joshua's gaze narrowed, slow and deliberate.
"Michael," he said quietly, "let nature take its course. Don't meddle with the operation."
Michael's lip curled higher, not quite a smile, but close enough to taste the edge of it.
"I didn't have to. He was already in the worst possible condition."
The words hung between them like smoke.
Joshua said nothing more. He simply tilted the umbrella away, letting the rain find Michael's uncovered head once again. A few cold drops struck the younger man's face; he didn't flinch.
"Even if they act like they don't hear you," Joshua murmured, voice low enough to blend with the rain, "they do. They're William's eyes and ears."
He stepped away without waiting for a reply, coat brushing the attendant's arm as he slid into the waiting car. The door closed with a soft, expensive thud.
Michael stood a moment longer in the drizzle, watching the taillights flare red and then fade into the wet blue dusk. Water streamed down his temples, tracing paths over the faint curve of that almost-smile