Chapter 3 - The Gentle Healer
Dr. Julian Sterling arrived twenty minutes later, his medical bag swinging from his hand as he strode through the front doors like a man accustomed to being summoned by kings and criminals alike. Sterling was Leo’s personal physician—a man who asked no questions, kept absolute confidentiality, and possessed stitching hands steady enough to remove a stray bullet while listening to jazz.
He examined Lily in her bedroom, checking her lungs with a silver stethoscope, shining a penlight into her eyes, and nodding with professional reassurance.
“She’s going to be fine, Leo,” Sterling said as he packed his instruments away. “The albuterol worked just in time. Another ten minutes in that cellar, and we’d be having a very different conversation. Keep her warm, keep her hydrated, and for God’s sake, keep her away from triggers.”
“Thank you, Julian,” Leo said quietly, walking the doctor to the bedroom door.
As Sterling stepped out into the hallway, his eyes landed on Beatrice, who was standing quietly by the linen closet with a damp cloth and a bowl of warm water, preparing to clean up the remaining scrapes on Lily’s floor.
The doctor stopped. He took in Beatrice’s swollen cheek, the split lip, and the torn shoulder of her black uniform.
“And who patched you up?” Sterling asked, raising an eyebrow.
Beatrice touched her jaw reflexively, wincing slightly. “I haven't had time, Doctor. It’s just a bruise.”
“A bruise that looks like a heavy silver ring connected with your zygomatic arch,” Sterling corrected, opening his medical bag again. “Sit down on that bench, young lady. A doctor doesn't treat half a household while ignoring the one who actually saved the patient’s life.”
Beatrice hesitated, looking down at Leo for permission.
Leo nodded once. “Sit, Beatrice.”
She perched nervously on the upholstered bench. Dr. Sterling worked with swift, practiced efficiency, applying an antiseptic wipe to her split lip and pressing a cold pack wrapped in gauze against her bruised cheekbone.
“You’ve got a hairline fracture in your left wrist, too,” Sterling muttered, pressing gently against her swollen knuckles. “Did you bang this on the cellar door?”
“I tried to force the deadbolt with a heavy iron fire poker,” Beatrice admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “It didn't budge. My hands just gave out before the wood did.”
Leo stood over them, watching the way Beatrice flinched silently against the pain without making a single sound of complaint. For two years, she had moved through his home like a ghost—cleaning up messes, cooking meals, folding laundry, and watching over his motherless child—while he had been too consumed by territory wars, dock strikes, and political payoffs to notice her existence.
He realized with a sickening jolt of guilt that he knew more about the criminal records of his worst enemies than he did about the woman who saved his daughter’s life.
“Why?” Leo asked suddenly.
Beatrice looked up, her dark, expressive eyes meeting his. “Sir?”
“Why did you risk your job—your life, considering who Victoria is—to force that door?” Leo asked. “You could have stayed in the kitchen. You could have pretended you didn't hear.”
Beatrice looked back down at her lap, her fingers curling into the fabric of her apron.
“Because nobody opened the door for me when I was little,” she said softly. The words slipped out before she could stop them, honest and unpolished. Then she quickly shook her head, terrified she had crossed a line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rossi. That wasn't my place to say.”
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Leo felt as though someone had driven a fist straight into his chest.
“Finish treating her, Julian,” Leo told the doctor, his voice thick with a strange, unfamiliar emotion. “And then bring her down to the study. We need to talk.”
