Chapter 4 - The Debt of the Calder Family
The scent of dark-roast espresso and toasted brioche woke me at dawn.
I blinked against the pale, golden sunlight cutting through the heavy curtains. For a terrifying second, I didn't know where I was.
Then I felt the heavy cashmere throw draped over my shoulders.
I was still in the armchair. My hand was resting empty on my lap.
The platform bed was empty. The sheets were neatly folded back.
I sprang to my feet, my combat instincts flaring instantly, reaching for the trauma kit.
"He’s in the kitchen," a voice said softly from the doorway.
I spun around.
June Calder stood leaning against the doorframe, wearing an oversized gray cashmere sweater and black leggings. A small, neat butterfly bandage covered the cut above her temple. She held two porcelain mugs of coffee, steam curling into the morning air.
She looked remarkably like her brother—the same high cheekbones, the same sharp jawline—but her eyes were a warm, vibrant hazel instead of cold slate.
"He doesn't stay down," June said, extending one of the mugs toward me. "Even when he should. Take it. You look like you’ve been through a mortar attack."
"Thanks," I muttered, taking the warm mug. The coffee was rich, dark, and strong enough to jumpstart a dead battery. "He shouldn't be walking. He spiked a one-hundred-and-two fever at 0300 and tore two sutures."
"He’s an idiot," June said simply, taking a sip from her own mug. "A very dangerous, extremely stubborn idiot. But he’s alive. Malcolm told me what happened at the hotel."
She stepped closer, her hazel eyes softening with genuine emotion.
"You stood between him and six men with hollow-point rounds, slammed your hand on his chest, and told him to sit down."
"He was hemorrhaging," I said defensively. "Rank doesn't mean anything in a trauma bay."
"To the rest of this city, it does," June replied. "Since our father died four years ago, everyone Rafe meets either wants to kill him, rob him, or kiss his ring. Nobody treats him like a human being. Nobody tells him 'no.'"
She smiled—a genuine, radiant smile that completely transformed her face.
"I liked you the second you threatened to let him bleed on your shoes."
"June," a deep voice rumbled down the hallway. "Stop interrogating the nurse."
Rafe appeared in the archway.
He was wearing a fresh pair of dark slate trousers and a loose-fitting black charcoal henley that hid the bulk of the bandages across his chest and back. His face was still slightly pale, but the fever had broken; his eyes were clear, sharp, and intensely focused.
He looked at me, his gaze sweeping from my unbrushed hair down to the dried blood on my scrub pants, lingering on the cashmere throw I had left on the armchair.
"How’s the pain?" I asked, instantly snapping back into clinical mode.
"Manageable."
"That means it hurts like hell."
"It means I can still pull a trigger," he said.
"Charming," I rolled my eyes, setting the coffee mug down. "Let me inspect the dressing before I leave."
"You’re not leaving yet," Rafe said, turning on his heel and walking toward the main dining room. "Breakfast is on the table. Malcolm has your background check."
My blood went cold. "My what?"
I marched after him into the expansive dining room. A long table of reclaimed oak was laden with fruit, pastries, eggs, and fresh juices. Malcolm stood near the French doors overlooking the terrace, holding a manila folder.
"Sit, Nora," Rafe said, pulling out a heavy chair for me.
I stayed standing. "You ran a background check on me?"
"I run background checks on the people who deliver my mail," Rafe said, sitting at the head of the table. "You spent four years in the 10th Mountain Division. Two tours in Afghanistan. Combat Action Badge. Army Commendation with Valor for dragging a platoon sergeant out of a burning Cougar MRAP under direct sniper fire."
He opened the folder Malcolm handed him, flipping through the pages with his uninjured left hand.
"Honorably discharged twenty-two months ago. Living in a two-bedroom walk-up in South Boston. Your brother, Caleb, is a junior at Northeastern University studying civil engineering. His tuition is twenty-eight thousand a semester. You’ve been working sixty-hour weeks at Boston City Hospital to pay off his student loans so he doesn't have to carry debt."
Rafe closed the folder with a soft *slap*.
He looked up at me.
"You don't take bribes. You don't bow to authority. And you don't break under fire."
"Is there a point to this invasion of privacy, Calder?" I demanded, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. "Or do you just like reminding people how much power you have?"
"The point," Rafe said, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the oak, "is that I need a personal medical officer."
The room went dead silent. Even June stopped spreading jam on her toast.
"No," I said instantly.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand a year," Rafe countered smoothly. "Caleb’s remaining tuition paid in full by noon today. A private security detail on your apartment, or a townhouse in Back Bay with Calder security clearance. You answer only to me. You oversee June’s medical protocols, my operational triage, and any field extractions our team requires."
I stared at him in utter disbelief.
"You want me to be a mob doctor."
"I want you to be *my* doctor," Rafe corrected, his voice dropping into that low, possessive frequency that made my pulse jump. "There’s a difference."
"I took an oath to do no harm, Calder."
"I’m not asking you to do harm. I have Malcolm for that," Rafe said, without even glancing at his lieutenant. "I’m asking you to keep the people I care about alive."
"You don't get to buy me," I spat, taking a step toward the table. "You think because you throw a stack of cash and my brother’s tuition at me, I’m just going to roll over and become another weapon in your arsenal? I patched you up because you were bleeding on the street. That was my job. My job is done."
June leaned forward, her hazel eyes pleading. "Nora, please. The men who hit the hotel—they aren't done. Rafe won't admit it, but he can’t go to a standard surgical facility without starting a turf war that will turn downtown into a free-fire zone."
"That’s his problem!" I snapped, turning toward the foyer. "Call Chen. He likes your money."
"Nora," Rafe called out.
I didn't stop. I walked straight toward the private elevator.
Suddenly, a dull, muffled *thump* vibrated through the floorboards.
It wasn't thunder.
It was the distinct, unmistakable concussion of a low-yield breacher charge detonating on the floor below.
Instantly, the ambient lighting in the penthouse clicked off, replaced by the amber glow of battery-backed emergency strobes.
A siren began to pulse—low, quiet, and urgent.
"Breach on six!" a voice barked through Malcolm’s earpiece. "Stairwell B! Multiple suppressed weapons! They cut the main power trunks!"
Malcolm had his Five-seveN out before the voice finished speaking. "Rossi’s hit team. They tracked the ambulance."
Rafe didn't hesitate.
May you like
Despite the torn sutures, despite the bullet hole punched through his latissimus dorsi, he moved with the terrifying speed of a striking predator. He vaulted over the dining table, grabbed my arm, and yanked me down behind the heavy marble island of the kitchen just as a hail of submachine-gun fire shattered the panoramic glass windows.
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