He looked down at Clara. Her eyes were fluttering shut, her chin dropping toward her chest.
“Clara, hey. Look at me,” Dante said, tapping her cheek sharply.
Her eyes rolled open, unfocused and glazed.
“You did good,” Dante said, his voice softer than before, yet laced with a dangerous promise. “You gave us the location. Now I need you to stay awake. You hold on, you hear me? You hold on.”
Clara tried to nod, but the darkness was rushing in from the edges of her vision, heavy and suffocating. The last thing she felt was Dante’s hand gripping her shoulder, pulling her forward into the light as the SUV plunged deeper into the night.
Chapter 2: The Silver Falcon
Clara woke to the sharp, chemical scent of antiseptic and the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor.
She gasped, her eyes snapping open, expecting to see the chaotic kitchen or the dark interior of the SUV. Instead, she was staring up at a pristine white ceiling inset with soft, recessed lighting. She was lying in a specialized hospital bed, but the room around her was entirely too luxurious to be a standard emergency ward. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany, and heavy velvet curtains were drawn over floor-to-ceiling windows.
Her right arm felt incredibly heavy. She turned her head and saw it elevated on a padded rest, wrapped tightly in white gauze. An IV line ran into the back of her left hand, dripping a clear fluid into her veins.
The terrifying numbness in her chest had receded, replaced by a deep, aching exhaustion.
“You’re awake.”
Clara flinched, turning her head toward the voice.
Dante was sitting in a leather armchair in the corner of the room. He had taken off his suit jacket, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the dark ink of tattoos tracing up his neck. He looked exhausted, his eyes shadowed, but his posture was still coiled tight with tension.
“Where am I?” Clara asked. Her voice was raspy, scratching against her dry throat.
“My private residence. The medical wing,” Dante said, standing up and pouring a glass of water from a silver pitcher on the nightstand. He walked over and held the glass to her lips. She drank greedily, the cool water soothing the burning in her throat.
“Dr. Aris managed to stabilize your heart rate,” Dante explained, setting the glass down. “The toxin was a synthetic neuro-inhibitor. Highly concentrated. If you had ingested even a fraction of what was on that plate, you would have been dead before you hit the restaurant floor. The skin exposure gave us just enough time to flush your system.”
Clara looked down at her bandaged arm. “Is Henri… is the chef okay?”
Dante’s expression darkened. “Henri is safe. He’s in the next room, under guard. But he’s falling apart. The man who blackmailed him hasn't contacted him since the restaurant. Vance knows the hit failed.”
“Vance,” Clara repeated, the name triggering the memory of the silver falcon logo. “Who is he?”
Dante crossed his arms, leaning against the edge of her bed. “A rival industrialist. We’ve been engaged in a hostile war over commercial port contracts on the East Coast for two years. He’s losing millions, and he’s desperate. I knew he was ruthless, but I didn't think he would stoop to kidnapping an eight-year-old boy just to poison me at a public dinner.”
Clara pushed herself up slightly, wincing as the muscles in her chest protested. “You said the red clay meant he was keeping the boy at a shipyard. Did you find him?”
“My men are mapping the Brighton shipyard right now through satellite and thermal imaging,” Dante said quietly. “But it’s a massive property. Thousands of shipping containers stacked six high. If we go in blind, Vance’s men will see us coming and they’ll kill the boy just to cover their tracks.”
The door to the medical suite opened softly. Dr. Aris, a slender, older man in a tailored suit rather than a lab coat, stepped in, checking a tablet. He looked at Clara with mild surprise. “You have a remarkable constitution, Miss Clara. The counter-agent is holding, but your nervous system is still deeply traumatized.”
“Can she walk?” Dante asked abruptly.
Dr. Aris frowned. “I wouldn't recommend it. She needs at least twenty-four hours of—”
“Can she walk, Aris?” Dante repeated, his voice leaving no room for debate.
“Yes, if she pushes herself. But she is weak.”