Chapter 3 - The King of Brooklyn
The name hit Kira like a physical blow.
Ryker Cross.
Even nurses working sixty-hour weeks in the roughest trauma center in New York knew that name. He wasn't just a wealthy businessman or a high-end real estate developer. Ryker Cross was the undisputed phantom king of Brooklyn—the elusive, ruthless head of the Cross syndicate, a man whispered about in hushed tones by cops, politicians, and career criminals alike. He controlled the docks, the construction unions, the financial district underworld, and half the municipal judges in the state.
And right now, the most feared man in New York was lying flat on Trauma Bay Three’s operating table with a six-inch knife wound leaking arterial blood into his abdominal cavity.
“Suction!” Dr. Alan Vance barked, his forehead slick with sweat as he plunged his gloved hands deep into the open wound. “He clipped the descending aorta! Move, people, move!”
Kira stood at the edge of the surgical suite, her hands steady as she handed clamps and suture kits to the frantic trauma surgeon. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, not out of fear for the patient's criminal empire, but out of professional duty. On this table, Ryker Cross wasn't a mob boss. He was just a human body fighting to stay on the wrong side of death.
Outside the trauma doors, Dante stood like a granite statue, arms crossed over his massive chest, refusing to let any hospital administrator or police officer near the surgical wing.
“He’s stabilizing,” Dr. Vance breathed out five agonizing hours later, dropping his bloody instruments onto the metal tray with a metallic clatter. “God help us all, but the bastard actually pulled through.”
Kira wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist, her blue scrubs stained with the blood of Brooklyn’s shadow king.
When Kira finally stepped out into the quiet pre-dawn hallway to catch her breath, Dante was waiting for her.
“How is he?” Dante demanded, his eyes narrowing.
“He’s resting,” Kira replied, her voice steady despite her exhaustion. “He lost a dangerous amount of blood, and if he pulls out those stitches because he tries to get up too early, his intestines will follow him onto the floor. Tell him he’s on strict bed rest for at least forty-eight hours.”
Dante stared at her for a long, calculating moment. Then, slowly, a faint nod of respect touched his scarred face. “You didn't panic back there when he went down.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Kira said flatly. “Though usually the men bleeding out in my ER didn't break someone’s wrist before passing out.”
“Marcus Webb,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a dangerous purr. “The boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend, hopefully,” Kira muttered, crossing her arms.
“He won't be a boyfriend anymore,” Dante said simply, turning away and walking down the corridor toward the private recovery suite where Ryker Cross had been transferred under armed guard.
Kira didn't ask what that meant. She didn't have to. By sunrise, word would travel through the streets of Brooklyn, and men like Marcus Webb would start learning that cruelty carried an expensive, retroactive tax.
When Kira’s shift finally ended at 7:00 a.m., she walked out into the cold March morning, pulling her coat tight against the wind. She expected to go home, crash into her bed, and sleep for fourteen hours.
She didn't expect to find a pristine black town car idling at the curb, with Dante holding the rear door open for her.
“Mr. Cross wants a word before you leave, Nurse Ross,” Dante said.
May you like
Kira hesitated. Every instinct told her to turn around and catch the subway. But curiosity—and a stubborn refusal to be intimidated by anyone—won out. She sighed, stepping past Dante and sliding into the luxurious leather interior of the town car.
The vehicle smoothly glided away from the curb, carrying her deeper into a world she had spent four years trying to ignore.
