Chapter 8 - SHADOWS IN THE CELLAR
"No," Emma replied instantly, standing her ground against the feared crime boss without taking a single step back. "I am your primary medical provider. You took an extra dose of baclofen ten minutes ago. Your motor control and reaction time are compromised. You sit in that chair right now, and you risk throwing yourself into a hypertensive crisis."
Desmond let out a dark, dangerous growl, his broad torso sitting up fully in the bed. He swung his unfeeling legs over the edge of the mattress with his arms, his massive upper body working effortlessly to compensate for his useless lower half.
"I have spent six months in this damn bed because of the bomb that bastard planted," Desmond snarled, his voice vibrating through the bedroom walls. "I have sat in the dark while my empire fell apart and my competitors laughed at my name. I am not waiting until morning to look the traitor in the eye."
Frankie stood quietly near the closet, holding out Desmond’s black long-sleeve shirt and dark fleece pants, knowing better than to attempt to stop his boss when his mind was set.
Emma looked at Desmond’s sweating, furious face. She saw the raw, agonizing pain beneath his anger—not just the physical pain of his shattered body, but the profound psychological wound of being crippled by someone he considered family.
She let out a long, frustrated sigh, running her fingers through her messy bun.
"Fine," Emma said, turning toward the sleek black motorized wheelchair parked in the corner. "If you're going down there, I'm coming with you. If your blood pressure spikes above 180, I am pulling the manual override on your chair and wheeling you straight back to the elevator. Am I clear?"
Desmond paused, looking at her with a mix of disbelief and cold amusement. "You think you can stop me in front of my men?"
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"Try me, Gallagher," Emma shot back, wheeling the heavy chair directly alongside the mattress and locking the wheel brakes with a sharp click. "I've handled violent psychiatric patients bigger than you. Get in the chair."
For the second time in two weeks, the faint trace of a dark, amused smile touched Desmond’s sharp lips. He reached out his massive, tattooed arms, locked his hands onto the armrests of the wheelchair, and transferred his powerful upper body into the seat with smooth, practiced strength.
