Chapter 6
The medical room was utterly destroyed. Twisted metal, scattered foam molds, and shattered plastic littered the floor, transforming the sterile environment into a war zone. Preston groaned weakly from the center of the wreckage, his hands trembling as he tried to push himself up from the cold tile. His expensive tailored tweed hunting jacket was ruined, stained with his own blood, and his silk cravat hung loose and crooked around his neck.
He finally managed to push himself up onto his knees, his head swimming, only to find the polished leather riding boots of his cousin standing mere inches from his face.
Preston slowly looked up, his bloodshot, terrified eyes tracing the sharp lines of Elijah’s tailored navy blazer, up past the artistic, moderate tattoos decorating his neck, to meet the cold, intimidating gaze of the man who ruled their world.
Elijah looked down at Preston, his expression utterly devoid of mercy or familial affection. The silence stretching between them was heavy and absolute, far more terrifying than any shouted threat.
"Elijah..." Preston choked out, spitting a small amount of blood onto the tile. He tried to scramble backward, sliding away on his knees, his pristine leather riding boots entirely useless. "I... I can explain."
Elijah didn't move. He simply watched the older man crawl backward, studying him like a scientist observing an insect. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, lethal, and perfectly controlled. Every word sounded measured, deliberate, and undeniably dangerous.
"Let me see what’s got you so terrified," Elijah murmured softly.
He slowly reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and withdrew a sleek, heavy folding knife. With a flick of his tattooed thumb, the sharp steel blade snapped open, locking into place with a menacing click that echoed loudly in the quiet room.
Preston gasped, pressing his back hard against the base of the examination bench, entirely trapped. "No, wait! Elijah, please! It's not what you think! Don't do this!"
Elijah completely ignored his cousin’s pathetic pleading. He turned his back on Preston and walked over to the padded bench where Zoe was still sitting. The little girl was sobbing quietly, her small hands still gripping the top edges of her tall glossy black rubber riding boot.
"Daddy," Zoe whimpered as he approached, tears streaming down her glowing golden-brown cheeks. "It hurts. It keeps scratching."
"I know, baby girl," Elijah said, his voice instantly softening, the terrifying Mafia boss completely disappearing as he knelt before his daughter. He gently brushed a stray curl from her forehead with his free hand. "Daddy is going to fix it right now. Don't look at the boot, look at me."
Zoe nodded bravely, locking her large brown eyes onto her father's face.
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Elijah didn't bother using the blunt trauma shears Dr. Olivia had dropped. He placed the incredibly sharp blade of his folding knife against the thick rubber collar of the riding boot. With a single, smooth, powerful downward motion, he sliced the heavy material completely open from the knee all the way down to the ankle.
The thick rubber parted easily under the sharp steel, peeling away from Zoe’s leg. As the boot fell open, the terrible secret Preston had been so desperate to hide was finally exposed to the sterile light of the medical room.
