Chapter 9 - Wolves in the Sanctuary
The pressure of Gabriel’s hand was an anchor in the storm of Matilda’s terror. His fingers squeezed hers until her knuckles ached, a silent, unmistakable communication passing between them in the dark beneath the white sheet: Do not give me away. Hold your ground.
She swallowed the scream that rose in her throat, forcing her face to remain a mask of weeping devastation. She did not dare pull her hand back; she leaned her body further across the table, using her apron and torso to completely conceal the point where their hands were locked together.
Carmine’s gloved hand stopped inches from her shoulder. He frowned, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied her trembling form. He was a suspicious, paranoid creature by nature, a man who had survived a decade of mafia warfare by anticipating every betrayal. Yet, looking at the frail young woman weeping over the body of a man she had served tea to for three years, he saw only pathetic, weak sentimentality.
"You're making a scene, Higgins," Carmine said, his voice dropping into a sneering drawl. "You think Gabriel gave a damn about you? You were domestic help. You scrubbed his floors and brought him his whiskey. If he kept the boys from touching you, it’s because he didn't like other dogs marking his territory."
Every word was designed to humiliate her, to strip away whatever dignity she possessed. But Matilda barely heard him. All her senses were focused on the terrifying heat radiating from Gabriel’s hand. Beneath the sheet, she could feel the faint, rhythmic twitch of his pulse gaining strength, pushing against her fingers like a caged beast rattling its bars. His forearm was rigid, the muscle coiling beneath the skin, gathering every ounce of metabolic energy to overcome the remaining traces of the neurotoxin.
"He was kind to me," Matilda whispered, forcing her voice to tremble, playing the part with every shred of courage she had left. She looked up at Carmine, letting the tears spill freely down her pale cheeks. "He was the only man in this house who ever was. Please, Mr. Carmine. Let me wash his face before you take him. Just let me wipe the blood off his temple. It isn't right to put him in that bag like he was nothing."
Carmine scoffed, a dry, cruel sound that echoed off the stainless-steel walls. He turned back to Dr. Vance, shaking his head. "Look at this. The great Gabriel Falcone, terror of the five families, wept over by a scullery maid." He turned back to Matilda, his expression hardening into cold granite. "Step away from the table, Matilda. I won't tell you again. If you're still in this room when the zipper goes up, you'll be going into the fire with him."
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Behind him, Dr. Vance unrolled the black vinyl bag, the heavy material crackling sharply in the cold air. The silver teeth of the zipper parted with a loud, raspy screech that sounded like tearing metal.
Gabriel’s fingers tightened even further around Matilda’s. It was a warning—a signal that he was conscious, that he could hear every word being spoken, and that the time to strike was drawing near.
