Part 2: The Cage of Debt
The silence that followed my question was heavier than the lead that had pierced my stomach. Gideon didn't flinch. He didn't offer a hollow, comforting lie. He merely leaned down slightly, his large hand gently but firmly pressing against my uninjured shoulder to keep me from thrashing.
"No," Gideon said, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "The bullet missed your spine by less than a millimeter. The numbness is from the trauma and the epidural block. You will walk again, Sadie. I will hire the best neurosurgeons in the hemisphere to ensure it."
I let out a ragged breath, my vision blurring with hot, delayed tears. But the relief was short-lived. Gideon didn't look grateful; he looked furious. He was a man who had built a multi-million-dollar criminal empire on the absolute rule of never owing anyone anything. Now, he was shackled by a blood debt to a woman who cared more about her leaking bathroom water heater than his global reputation.
Within three days, my private room became a fortress. Two massive men in tailored black suits stood guard outside my door, turning away hospital staff until Gideon’s personal, heavily vetted physicians cleared them. Beautiful arrangements of white roses flooded the tables, yet the room felt less like a sanctuary and more like a high-security holding cell.
On the fourth evening, the heavy wooden door pushed open. It wasn't Beatrice with her soft apologies. It was a man named Marco, Gideon’s ruthless underboss. He didn't look at me; he looked directly at Gideon, who was sitting silently in the leather armchair by the drawn blinds.
"Boss, we found the leak," Marco whispered, his voice dripping with an implicit, dangerous urgency. "The shooters were hired by the Colombo family, but they had internal help. Someone leaked Beatrice’s private physical therapy schedule. They knew exactly when the greenhouse guards would be rotating shifts."
Gideon stood up slowly, the movement so fluid and predatory it made the hairs on my arms stand up. "Who was it, Marco?"
Marco hesitated, his eyes darting briefly toward my bed before returning to his boss. "It was the clinic, Gideon. The administrative coordinator at Sadie’s physical therapy practice. They caught him trying to clear out his safe-deposit box an hour ago. He claims he didn't know it would be a hit—he thought they just wanted to track your assets."
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My heart hammered against my ribs. My clinic? The mundane, boring office where I filled out insurance forms and complained about cheap coffee was tied to a mafia execution attempt?
Gideon turned his head toward me, his face completely devoid of emotion. "Your employer sold your schedule, Sadie. They put my mother in the line of fire. And because of their greed, your life is now permanently intertwined with mine." He walked to the edge of my bed, leaning over until I could smell the faint scent of rain and expensive tobacco on his coat. "The Colombo family knows you survived. They know you saw the shooters' faces before the glass shattered. You are no longer a bystander. You are a target."
