Chapter 6 - The Safehouse and the Storm
The storm that hit New Orleans on Thursday night wasn't just rain; it was a tropical deluge that flooded the French Quarter and turned the Mississippi into a churning brown monster.
Iris finished her shift at 9:00 p.m., signing off on her last batch of charts before grabbing her umbrella and heading toward the hospital’s subterranean parking garage. The garage was mostly empty, echoing with the sound of dripping water and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
As she unlocked her sedan, the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stood up.
A shadow detached itself from the concrete pillar ten feet away.
“Dr. Delaqua, I presume?” a raspy voice called out.
Iris spun around, clutching her keys like a weapon. Two men in raincoats stepped out from the gloom, blocking the exit aisle. They weren't hospital staff. They moved with the silent, predatory grace of enforcers.
“Step back,” Iris commanded, her voice dropping an octave as she reached into her bag for her phone.
“Don't bother with the phone, doc,” one of them sneered, taking another step forward. “Mr. Tomaso sends his regards. He just wants a little chat about your surgical notes.”
Iris didn't run. Instead, she swung her heavy medical bag directly into the lead thug’s stomach with all her weight, sending him doubling over with a gasp. She bolted toward the stairwell door, but the second man grabbed her arm, wrenching her backward with brutal force.
Before she could scream, a heavy shadow dropped from the concrete overhead like an avenging angel.
Marco Greco hit the second man with a flying tackle that slammed him into the concrete floor with a bone-crunching thud. Simultaneously, three more of Salvatore’s men swarmed out of the shadows, subduing the first attacker before he could recover his breath.
Within three seconds, both thugs were pinned face-down in the oil-stained concrete.
Marco stood up, brushing off his jacket, and looked at Iris with mild professional concern. “You okay, Doctor?”
Iris took a ragged breath, straightening her coat and adjusting her glasses. “I was managing.”
“Right,” Marco muttered dryly. “Boss is waiting in the car.”
The rear door of a black armored SUV opened, revealing Salvatore Mancini sitting inside. He looked like an apex predator stripped of patience. When he saw Iris step into the vehicle, the dark fury in his eyes instantly melted into intense, overwhelming relief.
“Are you hurt?” Salvatore demanded, grabbing her hands and checking her over with frantic speed.
“I’m fine,” Iris insisted, pulling her hands back, though she didn't move away. “Your men arrived... on time.”
“They were supposed to be watching your office, not waiting for you to get cornered in a parking garage,” Salvatore snarled, his voice vibrating with anger—not at her, but at himself. He turned to Marco. “Double the detail on her apartment. Move her car to the compound.”
“No,” Iris said firmly.
Salvatore stopped, turning back to look at her. “Iris, Tomaso’s men just tried to snatch you in a hospital parking garage. You are not going back to an unprotected apartment tonight.”
“I am not running away,” Iris said, meeting his gaze head-on. “And I am certainly not moving into a mob boss’s compound.”
“It’s a safehouse,” Salvatore corrected, his voice dropping into a low, persuasive rumble. “And until Tomaso is in the ground or behind bars, you are not safe anywhere else. Do you think I can sit in my penthouse knowing I put a target on your back just because you had the courage to save my daughter?”
Iris looked into his stormy gray eyes, seeing the raw vulnerability hidden beneath the terrifying power. The rain lashed against the armored windows of the SUV, wrapping them in a private, isolated world.
She let out a long, defeated sigh.
May you like
“Fine,” she conceded softly. “To the safehouse. But I want my scrubs and my laptop.”
Salvatore’s mouth curved into a slow, undeniable smile. “Whatever you want, Doctor.”
