Chapter 7 - The Turning of the Brass Key
The sound that followed was unmistakable, sharp and metallic, slicing through the tension of the room like a scalpel: the rattle of a brass key slipping into the lock of the heavy glass door.
Matilda’s entire body went rigid. Her chin rested on Gabriel’s cold shoulder, her eyes fixed on the door handle as it began its slow, deliberate descent.
Through the frosted pane, Carmine’s dark silhouette was pressed close. She could see the razor-sharp outline of his jaw, the black fabric of his tie, and the intimidating bulk of his broad shoulders. Beside him, the lead surgeon held the thick black vinyl bag draped over his forearm, the silver teeth of the heavy-duty zipper glinting faintly in the dim light of the corridor. They were seconds away from crossing the threshold.
Matilda knew she had nowhere to run. If she attempted to hide in the small adjoining washroom, Carmine would discover Gabriel’s uncovered body, check his pulse out of paranoia, and realize he was alive. If she was caught hiding, she would be executed as a witness. Her only hope—the only sliver of survival for either of them—was to play the role she had always played: the harmless, weeping maid, broken by grief, entirely blind to the treachery unfolding around her.
She quickly pulled the white sheet up over Gabriel’s chest, covering the bandages and his bare shoulders, leaving only his pale, handsome face exposed to the blue light. She kept her right hand buried beneath the folds of the linen, her fingers still firmly entwined with his, anchoring him down, desperately trying to project her own will into his paralyzed body.
Click.
The heavy deadbolt disengaged with a mechanical thud that reverberated through the stainless-steel room. The handle depressed all the way. The reinforced door, sealed with airtight rubber gaskets to maintain sterile pressure, broke its seal with a soft, hissing sigh.
Matilda buried her face against Gabriel’s unmoving neck, squeezing her eyes shut, letting fresh tears soak into his skin. Her shoulders shook with genuine, unfeigned terror. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to bolt, to throw herself at Carmine’s feet and beg for mercy, but she held her ground, shielding Gabriel’s right side with her own small body.
Outside the door, Carmine pushed the heavy glass open with the flat of his leather-gloved hand. The freezing draft from the corridor swept into the room, carrying with it the scent of high-end cologne, damp wool, and cold rain from the Chicago night.
May you like
"What the hell is this?" Carmine’s harsh, grating voice boomed across the examination room, dripping with disgust and sudden suspicion.
Matilda did not lift her head immediately. She let out a trembling sob, pressing herself closer to the unmoving boss, her small fingers tightening over Gabriel’s cold, motionless hand beneath the sheet. The stage was set. The wolves were inside the door, and the only shield the dying king had left was a terrified girl in a lace apron.
