Chapter 2 - Don’t Take That Glass
Damian Cross could silence a ballroom merely by looking irritated.
That night, he did something far more frightening.
He smiled.
Not because anything was amusing.
Because five hundred guests were still watching him, and Damian apparently refused to let enemies know when they had surprised him.
He accepted a fresh champagne flute from a different waiter, lifted it without drinking, and smiled toward an approaching senator.
“Enjoy the party,” he told me quietly.
I stared at him.
“Someone just tried to poison you.”
“Possibly.”
“And someone broke into the clinic.”
“Yes.”
“You’re telling me to enjoy myself?”
“I’m telling the room.”
He turned his smile toward me.
“But you’re coming with me.”
Three minutes later, we were inside a private elevator.
The moment the doors closed, Damian’s expression changed.
“Report.”
His head of security, Marcus Velez, stood beside us with his phone pressed to one ear.
Marcus looked like a man who had been carved rather than born. Broad shoulders, close-cropped hair, almost no visible emotion.
“Alarm at Crosswell triggered nine minutes ago,” he said. “Basement access.”
“Who’s inside?”
“Two night nurses, Dr. Levin, and four security officers.”
“Any injuries?”
“None reported.”
I released a breath.
Marcus continued.
“Camera system went offline forty seconds before the alarm.”
Damian looked at him.
“Inside access?”
“Has to be.”
“Seal the building.”
“Already done.”
Damian turned toward me.
“What’s in the basement?”
I blinked.
“You own the clinic.”
“I own the building. I don’t manage medical storage.”
“Pharmacy supply, records archive, backup generators, sterilization—”
“What else?”
I thought.
Then remembered.
“The private records room.”
Marcus looked over.
“What records?”
“Patients who request restricted digital access.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
Meaning his people.
Meaning people who could not afford to have ordinary hospital databases recording certain injuries.
The elevator descended.
“What could someone steal?” Damian asked.
“Depends what they’re looking for.”
“Names?”
“Yes.”
“Dates?”
“Yes.”
“Treatment history?”
“Yes.”
“Visitors?”
I hesitated.
“Possibly.”
Marcus cursed under his breath.
Damian looked at me.
“Why possibly?”
“Some arrival logs are handwritten before they’re digitized.”
“Where are they?”
“Locked cabinet inside records.”
The elevator opened into the underground garage.
Three black SUVs were already waiting.
Damian took my arm before I could head toward the nearest one.
“You’re with me.”
“I assumed.”
“You assume too much.”
“So do you.”
Marcus glanced between us.
I realized Damian almost smiled again.
Almost.
Then we climbed inside the middle SUV.
Boston moved past the windows in ribbons of light.
I sat beside Damian while Marcus occupied the front passenger seat.
Nobody spoke for the first several minutes.
Then Damian asked, “What was his name?”
“The waiter?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
“You treated him.”
“I treat a lot of people.”
“You remembered his tattoo.”
“I remember injuries and details. Not necessarily names.”
Damian studied me.
“Describe what happened six months ago.”
I closed my eyes.
Not because I needed to.
Because sometimes closing my eyes removed distractions.
“Male, approximately thirty-five. Gunshot entrance wound left flank. Exit wound absent. He arrived around 2:10 a.m.”
Marcus looked back.
“You remember the time?”
“The Celtics game had ended just before I started my shift. Dr. Vasquez complained traffic delayed him.”
“Who brought the patient?” Damian asked.
“Two men.”
“Names?”
“No.”
“Describe them.”
“One was older. Maybe fifty. Gray coat. Scar near his jaw.”
Marcus immediately typed something.
“The other?”
“Younger. Tall. Brown hair.”
“Anything unusual?”
I thought harder.
“Yes.”
Damian waited.
“The younger man never looked at the patient.”
Marcus stopped typing.
“What?”
“People bringing wounded friends usually watch the patient. Even criminals. Even when they pretend they’re not scared.”
“And he didn’t?”
“No. He watched the hallway.”
Damian leaned back.
“Security?”
“That’s what I assumed.”
“But now?”
“Maybe he was making sure someone else didn’t arrive.”
Damian’s gaze sharpened.
“Someone like me.”
I looked toward him.
“You weren’t called that night?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
Crosswell’s unofficial rule was simple: certain patients triggered certain phone calls.
If a man connected to Damian’s organization arrived injured, somebody higher in the chain knew.
Damian seemed to read my thought.
“Exactly.”
The SUV turned hard.
My hand caught the seat.
Damian’s hand automatically steadied my arm.
Neither of us commented.
Marcus received another call.
He listened.
His expression darkened.
“What?” Damian said.
“The intruder got out.”
“How?”
“Maintenance tunnel beneath the old building.”
I frowned.
“There’s a maintenance tunnel?”
Damian looked at me.
“You work there.”
“I work above ground.”
Marcus almost smiled.
Almost.
“What did they take?” Damian asked.
“Unknown.”
“Then figure it out.”
“We have another issue.”
Damian’s voice became very quiet.
“Of course we do.”
Marcus turned around fully.
“The fake waiter is gone.”
For the first time that evening, Damian looked genuinely surprised.
“Explain.”
“Transport team put him in a secure room beneath the hotel. When they checked again, one guard was unconscious and the prisoner was missing.”
“Camera?”
“Disabled.”
The SUV suddenly felt smaller.
“Same method,” I whispered.
Both men looked at me.
“What?” Marcus asked.
“Crosswell cameras disabled forty seconds before the break-in.”
Marcus nodded slowly.
“The hotel feed went down fifty-two seconds.”
Damian looked toward the window.
“Someone coordinated both.”
“Someone with access,” Marcus said.
“Or someone who knows your systems,” I added.
Damian’s eyes met mine in the dark reflection.
“That narrows the list.”
“To how many?”
“Too many.”
We arrived at Crosswell twelve minutes later.
The clinic occupied three renovated floors of an old brick building near the waterfront.
At night, it looked almost ordinary.
Except for the armed men surrounding it.
Marcus entered first.
Damian followed.
I stepped inside behind him.
The familiar smell of antiseptic should have calmed me.
Instead, something felt wrong immediately.
The reception desk was untouched.
No broken glass.
No overturned furniture.
No chaos.
Whoever had entered knew exactly where to go.
We took the stairs down.
The basement door stood open.
Security gathered near the records corridor.
One guard had a bruise across his temple.
Dr. Levin looked furious.
“They didn’t touch the pharmacy,” he said. “They didn’t touch medication, equipment, nothing.”
“Records?” Damian asked.
Dr. Levin glanced at me.
“That’s the strange part.”
The records room door had been professionally opened.
No crude damage.
Inside, cabinets stood slightly ajar.
I moved toward the restricted files.
My stomach tightened.
One drawer was open.
“Anything missing?” Damian asked.
“I need to check.”
I pulled folders one at a time.
Private patients.
Aliases.
Dates.
Then I stopped.
There was an empty space.
Not large.
A single file.
Damian stepped closer.
“What was there?”
I stared at the label beside the gap.
I knew that file.
Everyone on night staff did.
Not because of the patient’s name.
Because the patient had almost died.
Six months ago.
Same night as the tattooed waiter.
Two wounded men had arrived at Crosswell within seventy minutes of each other.
I had forgotten that connection until now.
“The missing file belongs to a man named Anthony Rusk.”
Marcus’s expression changed instantly.
Damian’s changed more.
“You know him?” I asked.
Damian looked at the empty space.
“He works for Mercer.”
The room went silent.
My mind began rearranging details.
Tattooed waiter.
Mercer.
Anthony Rusk.
Same night.
Same clinic.
Someone breaking in six months later to steal only Rusk’s medical file.
“Damian.”
He looked at me.
“Rusk wasn’t brought in under that name.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I remember something now.”
My pulse increased.
“When we cut his shirt off, there was an envelope taped beneath it.”
Marcus took a step closer.
“What envelope?”
“I didn’t open it. I handed it to the man who brought him.”
“The older one?”
“No.”
“The younger one?”
“No.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed.
“Then who?”
I slowly looked toward the hallway.
Another memory returned.
A man had arrived ten minutes after Rusk.
Expensive coat.
Crosswell access card.
He had walked through security without signing in.
At the time I assumed he was one of Damian’s executives.
I described him.
Forties.
Silver at the temples.
Perfect posture.
A small gold Cross Holdings pin on his lapel.
The blood seemed to drain from Marcus’s face.
Damian didn’t move.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
“Yes.”
Marcus stared at Damian.
“Boss…”
“What?” I demanded.
Damian took out his phone.
The calmness in his face frightened me more than anger would have.
“That description belongs to Victor Shaw.”
I waited.
“Who is Victor Shaw?”
Damian looked directly at me.
“My chief operating officer.”
My stomach dropped.
Marcus added quietly, “And Damian’s oldest friend.”
The clinic suddenly felt ice cold.
Because if my memory was correct, Mercer’s wounded soldier had carried something into Damian’s private clinic six months ago.
And the person who had taken it was one of Damian Cross’s most trusted men.
Damian turned toward the open records cabinet.
“Find Victor.”
Marcus already had his phone out.
I looked at the empty file slot.
Then noticed something else.
A thin edge of white paper had slipped behind the drawer.
I reached for it.
“What is that?” Damian asked.
I pulled it free.
It wasn’t part of Rusk’s medical chart.
It was a photocopy.
Numbers.
Container codes.
Dates.
And one handwritten note across the bottom.
EAST BOSTON — 12:40 A.M. — CROSS SHIPMENT
I looked at the clock.
12:17.
Damian read the note.
His face changed.
“The gala,” he said.
“The clinic,” Marcus added.
I understood before either man finished.
Both attacks were distractions.
Whatever Mercer truly wanted was happening somewhere else.
Tonight.
May you like
In twenty-three minutes.
At East Boston.
