Chapter 7 - Justice in the Corridor
The wooden panel cracked under the second violent kick, sending a shower of splinters raining down over Delphine and Hannah.
Hannah slapped both hands over her mouth to stifle a scream, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Delphine grabbed Hannah’s arm, pulling her tighter against her chest, her eyes fixed on the gap beneath the half-closed security shutter.
Outside, the enforcer raised the barrel of his suppressed submachine gun, aiming it directly at the gap in the partition.
“I see movement inside!” the man shouted over his shoulder to Marco. “Should I breach it?”
Before Marco could give the order, the chaotic roar of gunfire erupted from the far end of the second-floor corridor.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The sharp, concussive blasts of heavy-caliber handguns echoed like thunder through the enclosed hospital hallway. Bullets slammed into the drywall, sending clouds of white plaster dust swirling into the air.
“Ambush! We’re taking fire from the west stairwell!” one of Marco’s men screamed in blind panic.
The enforcer aiming his weapon at the nurses' station spun around, abandoning his breach attempt to return fire down the hall.
Through the narrow slit of the security shutter, Delphine saw them.
Renzo Caruso was leading the charge, firing two pistols with terrifying, practiced precision. But moving right beside him—stepping with a slightly stiff, calculated gait that betrayed his fresh surgical stitches—was Salvatore Marchetti.
Salvatore wore a dark wool coat thrown over his hospital trousers, his face pale and slick with sweat from the physical agony of the movement, but his dark eyes were burning with an absolute, apocalyptic fury. He held a custom-weighted Sig Sauer in his right hand, firing with cold, mechanical efficiency.
“Flank them! Don’t let them reach the elevators!” Marco shrieked, diving behind a vending machine for cover.
“Marco!” Salvatore’s voice boomed down the corridor, cutting through the gunfire like a physical blow. It was a voice that commanded absolute terror.
Marco froze, his head snapping around.
In less than thirty seconds, the firefight was over. Renzo and two other loyal enforcers had cut off all avenues of escape, pinning Marco’s crew against the reinforced glass windows of the waiting area. Two of Marco’s men dropped their weapons and hit the floor with their hands behind their heads; the other two were already neutralized.
Renzo strode forward, kicking a submachine gun away from a fallen enforcer, and planted his boot squarely on Marco’s chest, pinning him against the linoleum.
Salvatore walked slowly down the center of the hallway. Every step sent a fresh wave of white-hot agony through his healing abdominal wall, but he didn't show a flicker of pain. He stopped right over Marco Vieri, looking down at the traitor with absolute, freezing contempt.
“Please, Boss... please!” Marco whimpered, staring up into the barrel of Salvatore’s pistol. “I didn't mean... it was a mistake—!”
“You brought war into a hospital,” Salvatore said quietly, his voice dangerously soft. “You endangered patients, nurses, and people who had nothing to do with our world. And worst of all, you thought my mercy was a weakness.”
Salvatore cocked the hammer of his gun.
“Boss! Wait!”
Salvatore paused, looking up.
The security shutter of the nurses' station slid upward with a sharp rattle. Delphine stepped out from behind the ruined desk, her white scrubs dusty with plaster, her expression a mix of adrenaline and fierce anger.
“Don’t do it here,” Delphine said, her voice ringing out clearly across the quiet corridor. “This is a hospital. People come here to heal, not to die on the floor I just spent twelve hours keeping clean. Take him outside.”
Renzo stared at her in utter astonishment. Salvatore blinked, slowly lowering the barrel of his gun an inch. A strange, heavy silence settled over the corridor as the most feared mafia boss in Chicago considered the command of a night-shift nurse.
A slow, profound expression of respect crossed Salvatore’s dark features.
He lowered the gun completely, gesturing to Renzo.
“Drag him out to the parking garage, Renzo,” Salvatore ordered evenly. “Let the Chicago police pick him up from the trunk. I want him tried in a federal court for every financial crime, treason, and conspiracy in the book. Let him spend the rest of his life staring at concrete.”
“Got it, Boss,” Renzo said, hauling a screaming, thrashing Marco up by his collar and dragging him toward the service elevator.
As the orderlies and security guards began to emerge from hiding to restore order, Salvatore turned his dark, intense gaze back toward Delphine. He walked slowly across the debris-strewn floor, stopping just a few feet away from her.
Up close, the scent of antiseptic, rain, and danger hung heavily around him.
“You called Renzo,” Salvatore said softly.
“You were my patient,” Delphine replied, standing her ground without flinching. “And your men were making a mess of my hallway.”
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Salvatore let out a low, gravelly chuckle that turned into a slight wince as his stitches pulled. He reached out, his large, warm hand gently touching her shoulder—a gesture of profound gratitude that carried more weight than a thousand spoken words.
“You have saved my life twice in twenty-four hours, Miss Rios,” Salvatore murmured, his eyes locking onto hers. “In my world, debts like that are never forgotten. And neither are the people who earned them.”
