Chapter 2 - THE DEVIL’S DEBT
Vincent Calder. The name echoed in my mind, pulling up a suppressed memory from a chaotic night shift three years ago. A man had stumbled into the ER loading bay, bleeding out from two gunshot wounds to the chest. No ID. No police report. Just a quiet, lethal presence that had terrified the attending physician into freezing. I hadn’t frozen. I had clamped his arteries, stabilized his pressure, and kept him breathing until his heavily armed associates arrived to transfer him to an undisclosed location. I had broken protocol. I had saved a monster.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I finally said, my voice raspy.
Vincent didn’t flinch at my tone. He stepped fully into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him with a terrifying finality. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. He wasn't just a former patient; he was the undisputed king of Chicago’s underworld, a man whose name was whispered with dread in boardrooms and back alleys alike.
“I keep my tabs, Harper,” he said, his deep baritone vibrating through the small, sterile apartment. He walked slowly toward the table, picking up the cheap wineglass Trevor had abandoned. “When I heard the nurse who saved my life was trapped in a fire, I arranged for the best burn specialists in the state. I paid for the surgeries. But I stayed away to let you heal in peace with your... partner.”
My chest tightened. “You paid for my surgeries?”
Trevor had told me his insurance covered it. Trevor had lied.
Vincent set the glass down, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “I also kept eyes on you. I know you lost your job because the hospital deemed your physical limitations a liability. I know your bank account is overdrawn. And I know the man you pulled from the flames just walked out on you.”
“So what?” I crossed my arms, suddenly hyper-aware of the fresh bandages on my neck. “You’re here to offer charity to the pathetic burn victim?”
“I don’t do charity,” Vincent replied, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. Up close, the faint scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco clung to him. “I need a private physician. Someone who doesn't ask questions. Someone who knows how to operate under pressure. The pay is ten times what Mercy General gave you, and you live on my estate. Safe. Protected.”
May you like
I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I’m not a doctor. And I can barely lift my left arm.”
“You are a survivor,” Vincent countered softly, reaching out. I flinched, expecting him to recoil, but his gloved thumb gently brushed the edge of my unbandaged cheek. “And I owe you my life. Pack a bag, Harper. You’re done living in the ashes.”
