Dr

Dr. Cole backed away.

“You’ve killed him.”

Carmine drew his pistol.

“Then I guess we’ll find out together.”

Two minutes passed.

Gabriel’s heart monitor slowed.

His breathing deepened.

The gray color in his face began to lift.

The black seepage stopped.

Cole stared at the monitor.

“No.”

Carmine looked at him.

“Oh, yes.”

By midnight, Dr. Cole was gone.

By one in the morning, the six stitches were sealed inside evidence bags.

By sunrise, three private labs were testing them.

And by breakfast, Carmine dropped a stack of hundred-dollar bills on the kitchen counter beside my cold egg sandwich.

I pushed it back.

“I don’t want it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Most people don’t refuse Falcone money.”

“Most people don’t understand that Falcone money comes with Falcone problems.”

For the first time, he almost smiled.

Then his face changed.

“You think you can go home?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

My hand froze around my coffee cup.

Carmine leaned closer.

“Whoever paid to kill Gabriel will learn he survived.”

I stared at him.

“They’ll learn why.”

The refrigerator hummed behind us.

A housekeeper loaded dishes into the dishwasher like this was a normal Tuesday morning.

Carmine pointed toward the ceiling.

“They’ll come for the person who ruined the assassination.”

My coffee suddenly tasted like metal.

“You mean me.”

“I mean you.”

I looked toward the long hallway.

At the cameras.

At the guards.

At the locked front doors.

Twenty-four hours earlier, I had been worried about my phone bill.

Now somebody might murder me over sewing thread.

That should have been the worst part.

It wasn’t.

Because three days later, Gabriel Falcone asked me to sit down and showed me who had bought the stitches.

And the name belonged to someone he called family.

PART 2: Gabriel paid my debt, then uncovered a surgical assassination

Gabriel was sitting up when Carmine brought me into the library.

No fever.

No delirium.

Just a black sling and the kind of stare that made you understand why grown men lowered their voices around him.

“You’re Sadi,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“The maid.”

“I prefer Sadi.”

His mouth moved slightly.

Fair enough.

He tapped a folder on the desk.

“The laboratory confirmed cadmium, arsenic compounds, and a synthetic necrotizing agent inside the thread.”

I crossed my arms.

“So I was right.”

“You were extremely right.”

He pushed another paper toward me.

It was a debt statement.

Mine.

Balance: zero.

My head snapped up.

“What did you do?”

“Paid it.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You saved my life.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to buy mine.”

His eyes narrowed.

Not angry.

Interested.

Most people probably thanked Gabriel Falcone before he finished terrifying them.

I wasn’t most people.

“My mother died owing that hospital,” I said. “I was paying it.”

“And now you aren’t.”

“That isn’t your decision.”

“No. Staying alive is.”

He slid another photograph across the desk.

The magnified black stitch.

“You recognized this.”

I leaned closer.

Twelve-ply diamond braid.

Maritime grade.

Cheap import dye.

I knew exactly where it came from.

“Miller & Sons,” I said.

Carmine frowned.

“Who?”

“Textile warehouse near Pier 42. They sell uncertified thread to counterfeit canvas shops.”

Gabriel stood slowly.

His face changed.

The recovering patient disappeared.

The boss came back.

“Get the cars.”

I looked at him.

“You’re going now?”

He buttoned his jacket one-handed.

“Someone paid a surgeon to rot me alive.”

Then he looked directly at me.

“I’m done resting.”

That was when I realized Gabriel Falcone wasn’t going to investigate his attempted murder.

He was going hunting.

And somehow, I had just given him the address.

PART 3: A dockyard ledger exposed the doctor—and Gabriel’s oldest friend

Rain hammered the roof of Miller & Sons like loose gravel.

The warehouse smelled like diesel, mold, saltwater, and cheap dye.

Basically my childhood with forklifts.

Gabriel brought Carmine, four armed men, and me.

I hated every second of it.

Miller, the owner, hated it more.

Carmine found the cash ledger in a blue binder.

I found the entry.

One spool.

Twelve-ply black maritime nylon.

Five thousand dollars cash.

“Five grand for thread?” Gabriel asked.

“Hush money,” I said.

Miller’s face collapsed.

Gabriel leaned over the desk.

“Who bought it?”

“A doctor.”

“Name.”

“Philip Croft.”

The first surgeon.

The man who had stitched Gabriel after the shooting.

Carmine muttered something vicious under his breath.

Gabriel remained perfectly still.

“Who introduced Croft to you?”

Miller shook his head.

“I can’t.”

Gabriel’s voice went softer.

“Then you misunderstand your situation.”

Miller looked at the armed men.

Then at me.

Then at Gabriel.

“Leo Rossi.”

Nobody moved.

Even I knew that name.