Azeelia Cole
The rain was back, tapping a nervous rhythm against the reinforced glass of a private medical safehouse hidden behind an unmarked industrial laundry on the city's east side.
Gabriel hadn't allowed the city paramedics to take Leonardo to a public hospital. He had rerouted the ambulance with one phone call, bringing his personal trauma surgeons to this sterile, underground bunker. Two armed guards stood outside the reinforced door, their weapons held at low ready.
Inside the small examination room, the smell of antiseptic and copper was thick.
Leonardo D’Amico looked nothing like the polished, silver-haired executive who managed trusts for the Marchetti family. His face was a map of swollen purple hematomas, his left eye swollen shut, and two of his fingers were splinted in
