Chapter 5 - Mercy's True Name
"Sabatini!" a voice screamed from the hallway. "We know you're in there!"
It was not Cyrus.
Roderick’s hand was on his gun before the speaker could finish the sentence. He pushed Adriana behind the metal examination table, drawing his silver revolver in a single, fluid motion.
The door to the clinic room was blown off its hinges by a blast from a twelve-gauge shotgun. Splinters of cypress and plaster rained down over the room. Beckett screamed, throwing himself over the old man on the mattress.
Through the dust, three men in dirty yellow raincoats stepped into the room. They carried short-barreled shotguns and cheap pistols—the mark of Gautier’s street enforcers.
"Gautier wants his runner back," the lead man snarled, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Roderick. His face went instantly pale as he recognized the Don. "Sabatini... what the hell are you doing here?"
"I own this city," Roderick said, his voice like dry gravel. "And tonight, I own this house."
The lead man raised his shotgun, but Roderick was faster.
Two shots fired from the silver revolver in rapid succession. The lead man fell backward into the hallway, his shotgun clattering against the linoleum. The other two enforcers began to fire wildly into the room, their bullets tearing through the plaster and shattering the glass of the lanterns.
Roderick threw his weight against the heavy metal examination table, tilting it on its side to create a shield for Adriana and the wounded boy. A bullet sparked off the iron legs, inches from his head.
From the hallway, the rapid, rhythmic pop of a submachine gun cut through the noise.
Cyrus.
Within ten seconds, the shooting stopped. The hallway went silent, save for the wet, gasping breaths of the dying enforcers.
Cyrus stepped through the ruined doorway, his weapon lowered, his coat covered in plaster dust. "They had a spotter on the Claiborne bridge, boss. They saw the Mercedes. More of them are coming from the canal."
Roderick stood up, glass crunching beneath his boots. He looked down at the ruined clinic. The lanterns were broken, the floor covered in oil, plaster, and blood. The patients on the mattresses were cowering, but none of them had been hit.
"We’re moving them," Roderick said.
"Where?" Adriana asked, her face pale but her eyes fierce.
"To the mansion," Roderick said. "The guest rooms in the east wing have been empty for ten years. My mother’s old solarium has its own entrance. We will set up the beds there. Beckett, gather whatever medicine is left that isn't covered in glass."
"Roderick," Adriana said, grabbing his lapel. "Your captains... the other families..."
"Let them talk," Roderick said, looking down at her with a clarity he had not felt since the day his brother died. "If they want to fight me because I choose to save lives instead of taking them, let them try. I spent seventeen years building an empire to protect myself. It's time I used it to protect someone else."
By sunrise, the rain had stopped.
The Garden District mansion was bathed in a clean, pink light as the sun rose over the Mississippi. In the east wing, the grand solarium—once filled with my mother’s rare ferns—had been transformed. Six clean hospital beds sat under the glass dome, and Beckett Hume was already organizing a shipment of medical supplies that Cyrus’s men had brought in from a friendly warehouse.
Teresa Alvarez stood by the door, holding Micah in her arms. The boy was rubbing his eyes, still half-asleep, while Domino sat at his feet, purring contentedly.
Adriana walked out onto the marble terrace, her face clean, wearing one of Roderick's oversized linen shirts. She stood by the balustrade, watching the mist rise from the garden.
Roderick walked up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. For the first time in years, the muscles in his back were loose. The pain was gone.
"You're going to have to explain this to the police chief," she said, without turning around.
"I already did," Roderick said. "I told him we're opening a private foundation. He agreed it was an excellent tax write-off."
She turned in his arms, her gray eyes reflecting the morning light. She reached up and touched his cheek, her thumb tracing his jawline. "You're a terrible businessman, Roderick Sabatini."
"Probably," he said, a genuine smile finally breaking across his face. "But I have an excellent therapist."
Behind them, Micah slipped from his mother’s arms and ran onto the terrace, Domino trotting close behind him. The child grabbed Roderick’s sleeve, pulling him down to look at a small, wet magnolia leaf he had found on the steps.
"Look, Uncle Roderick," Micah said. "The rain left a star on it."
May you like
Roderick knelt. He took the leaf from the child's hand, his leather gloves gone, his bare skin warm in the morning sun.
"Yes, it did, Micah," Roderick said, looking up at Adriana. "Yes, it did."
