Chapter 3 - Setting the Bone
Gabriel quickly set up a sterile field on the mahogany coffee table, laying out syringes, stainless-steel pins, splints, and rolls of fresh fiberglass casting material.
“I can give her a local nerve block, Vincent,” Gabriel murmured, drawing a clear liquid into a heavy glass syringe. “But to reduce this displacement properly without an operating room, I have to pull traction on the forearm. It is going to hurt like hell before the lidocaine fully numbs the deep periosteum. We should take her to the clinic.”
“No,” Vincent replied instantly. “Queens is crawling with Sullivan’s rats. If she steps foot in a clinic tonight, Sullivan gets tipped off. You do it here. Now.”
Charlotte looked at the syringe, then at her ruined arm, and began to hyperventilate. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the starched buttons of her blouse straining against the panic in her lungs. “I can’t... please, I can't do it. Just let me go home. Please, Mr. DeAgostino—”
Vincent shifted on the couch. Before she could pull away, he slid an arm behind her back, drawing her plush, trembling frame flush against his chest. He pulled her head gently against his shoulder, tucking her face into the crook of his neck.
“Look at me, Charlotte,” he commanded, his voice dropping into that dark, hypnotic register. “Don’t look at Gabriel. Look at my collar. Breathe.”
She was overwhelmed by him. He was completely solid, unyielding as granite, yet he held her with a fierce, protective reverence that she had never experienced in her life. For a woman who had always been told she took up too much space, who had spent twenty-four years shrinking herself into corners, being held this closely by the most dangerous man in the city felt like entering the eye of a hurricane.
“Hold her shoulders, Vincent,” Gabriel warned, stepping forward.
“I have her,” Vincent said. With his left hand, he threaded his fingers through hers—the swollen, bruised fingers of her broken arm—interlocking them tightly. “Squeeze my hand, Charlotte. Give the pain to me.”
Gabriel drove the needle in near the elbow to block the brachial plexus. Charlotte cried out, her nails digging into Vincent’s palm.
“That’s it, little bird,” Vincent murmured against her hair, his lips brushing the soft curls near her temple. “I’ve got you. Focus on my voice.”
“It hurts, Vincent, it hurts—” she gasped, not even realizing she had stripped away his title.
Vincent didn’t correct her. In fact, something dark and possessive flared in his eyes at the sound of his name on her lips. “I know it does. But it ends tonight. The pain ends, and then the men who did it end. Tell me their names.”
“M-Mickey Sullivan,” she sobbed, burying her nose into his crisp shirt, breathing in the scent of his skin to fight the agony. “And Frankie Cole. Frankie had the bat. He said... he said next time he’d cave my skull in for the forty thousand.”
Gabriel took hold of her wrist and elbow. “Reducing in three... two... one.”
With a swift, authoritative jerk, Gabriel pulled traction to align the broken ends of the radius.
A jagged scream ripped from Charlotte’s throat. Her back arched off the sofa. She clamped down on Vincent’s hand with all the strength left in her body, her tears soaking into his collar, her face contorting in pure, unadulterated torment.
Vincent did not flinch. He absorbed her weight, held her thrashing body securely against his chest, and tightened his grip on her fingers until the sickening *clunk* of bone slipping back into place resonated through the quiet study.
“Done. It’s set,” Gabriel panted, immediately wrapping the limb in cotton batting before applying the hardening splint. “The nerve block is kicking in now. She won't feel the plaster set.”
Charlotte went limp against Vincent’s chest, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The agonizing pressure had transformed into a dull, throbbing numbness. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy from shock, adrenaline, and pure exhaustion.
Vincent didn't push her away. He kept his arm wrapped securely around her waist, letting her rest her full weight against him. His thumb stroked her cheek, wiping away the streaks of salt and mascara.
“How long until she can walk?” Vincent asked Gabriel, his eyes never leaving Charlotte’s pale face.
“She shouldn't walk tonight at all. The shock alone could cause a vasovagal syncope. She needs rest, high-dose antibiotics, and four weeks in a cast,” Gabriel said, packing his tools.
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“Good,” Vincent said. He looked down at Charlotte, who was watching him through half-closed lids, terrified of what this sudden intimacy meant. “Because she isn't leaving this house again.”
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