Chapter 8
The heavy mahogany doors of the grand parlor remained firmly shut, isolating them from the rest of the sprawling mansion. Emily looked at the large, tattooed hand gripping her arm, then up at Michael’s resolute, uncompromising face. She knew the reputation of the man standing before her. Michael Carter did not take orders, and he certainly did not let people walk away when he demanded answers.
With a slow, defeated sigh, she stopped struggling. Michael released her arm, stepping back to give her space, though he remained positioned between her and the exit.
Emily walked over to a plush velvet armchair near the bay windows and sank into it. Her light blue uniform looked absurdly out of place against the opulent furniture. She reached up, pulling the remaining pins from her messy bun, letting her dark hair fall freely around her shoulders in a gesture of exhausted surrender.
"My real name is Dr. Amelia Vance," Emily began, her voice quiet, devoid of the fierce authority she had wielded earlier. "I was a pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon at a top-tier hospital in Chicago. I was the youngest attending surgeon on staff."
Michael remained standing, crossing his muscular arms over his unbuttoned white shirt, listening with silent, absolute focus.
"Eight months ago, I was assigned an emergency surgery," Emily continued, her dark eyes staring blankly at the ruined Persian rug. "A ten-year-old boy with a congenital heart defect. The surgery was complex, but it was flawless. I closed him up, and he was stable in the ICU."
She paused, taking a slow, natural breath, suppressing the traumatic emotions rising in her chest.
"Two hours later, he went into sudden cardiac arrest and died," Emily whispered. "I couldn't understand it. I pulled his blood work myself. Someone had intentionally laced his IV fluids with a lethal dose of potassium. It was a targeted assassination inside my recovery wing."
"Who was the boy?" Michael asked quietly, his mafia instincts immediately recognizing the pattern of a professional hit.
"He was the only son of the head of the Sinaloa cartel's northern distribution network," Emily said, looking up at Michael with haunted eyes. "The cartel didn't care about toxicology reports or hospital politics. They only knew that their heir died under my knife. They put a two-million-dollar bounty on my head."
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Michael’s sharp jaw tightened. He knew the Sinaloa operatives. They were ruthless, endless, and entirely unconcerned with collateral damage.
"The FBI offered me protective custody," Emily laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "But the agent who brought me into the safe house tried to put a bullet in the back of my head for the bounty money. I managed to disarm him and run. I realized then that I couldn't trust the law. So, I dyed my hair, forged new identification, and answered an ad for a maid in a Boston mafia household. I traded one devil for another to stay alive."
