Chapter 8
By four in the morning, the private medical suite inside Florian’s fortified estate in Greenwich was operating at full capacity.
A team of four private physicians and three trauma nurses, completely detached from any public hospital system, worked around the clock to flush the toxic cocktail of sedatives from Clara’s bloodstream. Electrolyte drips hung beside her bed; monitors beeped rhythmically in the quiet, climate-controlled room.
Florian stood by the reinforced glass window, looking in. He had changed into a clean white dress shirt and dark trousers, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a glass of untouched bourbon resting on the side table beside him.
The door behind him opened. Mrs. Gable stepped in quietly, carrying Tilda.
The little girl was dressed in clean cotton pajamas, her face washed clean, the gold paint completely gone from her skin. But beneath the warm lamplight, the purple finger marks on her forearms were still visible, treated now with soothing medical salve.
The moment Tilda saw Florian, she reached out her arms. "Grandpa."
Florian took her into his arms, holding her close against his shoulder. "Are you rested, Maisie?"
Tilda nodded sleepily, then pointed a small finger toward the glass partition. Her eyes widened. "Mommy?"
"Yes, sweetheart," Florian murmured, kissing her cheek. "Mommy’s right there. The doctors are helping her wake up."
"Is she still sick from the bad juice?"
Florian’s eyes darkened. "No. No more bad juice. Never again."
Through the glass, Clara stirred on the bed. Her head moved slowly from side to side on the pillow, her eyes opening, adjusting to the soft light of the room. A nurse leaned over, checking her pupils, then stepped toward the intercom on the wall.
"Mr. Ravensmere," the physician’s voice came through the speaker. "She’s conscious. She’s disoriented, but her vitals are stabilizing rapidly. She’s asking for her daughter."
Florian didn't hesitate. Carrying Tilda, he pushed the door open and stepped into the medical room.
Clara turned her head toward the sound. When her eyes locked onto Tilda, a choked, broken sob tore from her throat. She tried to sit up, her arms shaking with weakness, the IV lines pulling tight against her skin.
"Tilda..." Clara wept, tears streaming down her pale, bruised cheeks. "My baby... oh God, my baby..."
"Mommy!" Tilda wriggled out of Florian’s arms and scrambled onto the edge of the mattress, throwing her tiny arms around Clara’s neck.
Clara buried her face in her daughter’s hair, rocking her back and forth, sobbing uncontrollably. Florian stood at the foot of the bed, his broad hands resting on the iron rail, his chest tightening with an emotion so fierce and painful it felt like broken glass in his lungs.
After several minutes, Clara looked up. Her eyes met her father’s.
"Dad," she whispered, her voice hoarse from days of silence. "Hadrian... Berenice... they took everything. They made me sign papers... I fought them, Dad. I swear I fought them until they held me down."
"I know, Clara," Florian said softly, stepping closer and placing his heavy hand over hers. "I saw the marks. It’s over now."
"It’s not over," Clara said, her voice suddenly trembling with a terror that went far deeper than the drugs. Her fingers gripped his hand with surprising strength. "Dad, you don't understand. Hadrian didn't plan this alone. Berenice didn't plan this."
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Florian froze. "What are you talking about?"
"Hadrian was in debt to someone else," Clara whispered, her eyes darting toward the door as if expecting ghosts to step through. "Someone inside our own house. Someone who wanted your shipping routes opened to the cartel in Montreal."
