The neon sign of St. Jude Memorial flickered through the rain-streaked window of the breakroom, casting a sickly red glow over my half-eaten tuna sandwich

The silence in the executive office was heavy enough to crush bone.

Dominic stared at the encrypted tablet, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked in his cheek. The realization hung in the air like smoke: Sterling hadn't acted alone. He was merely the scalpel; someone else was the hand guiding the blade.

And now, that hand had wiped out the doctor before he could utter a single confession, leaving a trail of poisoned bodies in their wake.

"Boss," the young man in the leather jacket—whose name tag read Rocco—spoke up cautiously. "The police are already swarming the 9th Street warehouse. Anonymous tip. They're calling it a gangland execution."

"Let them call it whatever they want," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a dark, frozen register. "The police don't know about the toxin. They think it was a standard hit. But whoever killed Sterling knew the exact formula used in the NICU."

Dominic slowly turned his gaze away from the tablet and looked directly at me. The intensity in his dark eyes made my breath hitch.

"Claire," he said quietly. "You're in danger."

I swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the mahogany table. "Me? Why me? I'm just a night nurse."

"You're the nurse who smelled the poison when fifteen specialists couldn't," Dominic corrected sharply. "You're the one who forced the change of the ventilator circuit in front of half the staff. To anyone watching, you aren't just staff anymore—you're a witness who knows too much."

Rocco shifted uneasily, looking at me as if I were already carrying a target on my back. "Boss is right. If the mole inside our circle realizes Claire connected the dots, they won't hesitate to tie up this loose end too."

A cold shiver ran down my spine. Yesterday, my biggest problem was figuring out how to pay my electricity bill. Today, I was apparently public enemy number one for an unknown syndicate assassin hiding inside St. Jude Memorial.

"What do we do?" I asked, my voice holding steady despite the terror pooling in my stomach.

Dominic walked back to his desk, picked up a secure satellite phone, and punched in a single digit. "We don't wait for them to make the first move. Rocco, get two teams of our best men down to the third-floor NICU. No one gets in or out without my direct authorization. No visitors, no new staff, no exceptions."

"On it, boss," Rocco said, turning on his heel and bolting out of the office.

Dominic turned back to me, his expression softening just a fraction. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy brass key attached to a black leather fob. He placed it gently on the table next to my deed.

"What's this?" I asked, looking down at it.

"The key to a secure safehouse two blocks from here," Dominic said firmly. "You are not going back to your room above the laundromat tonight, Claire. Pack your things—my men will escort you. Until we smoke out the rat inside this hospital, you stay under my protection."

I opened my mouth to argue. I wanted to tell him that I had a life, that I couldn't just vanish into a syndicate safehouse because of a murder mystery. But then I remembered the sweet, almond-like chemical smell lingering in the air of Suite 401. I remembered the cold, lifeless gray of baby Leonardo's skin.

If someone inside this hospital was ruthless enough to poison a newborn infant, they wouldn't think twice about slipping a lethal dose into a nurse's coffee mug in the breakroom.

"Okay," I whispered, picking up the brass key. "I'll pack my things."

"Good," Dominic said, walking toward the office door and pulling it open. "Rocco's men will wait for you outside your apartment. Don't go anywhere alone."

I nodded, grabbing my clipboard and the manila folder containing my new deed. My heart hammered against my ribs as I walked out of the executive suite, taking the private elevator back down to the ground floor.

The hospital felt entirely different now. The bright, cheerful pastel walls of the pediatric wing suddenly looked like a facade hiding a nest of vipers. Every doctor passing by in a white coat looked suspicious. Every nurse pushing a medication cart looked like a potential threat.

When I finally reached the locker room to grab my jacket and bag, the room was empty. The fluorescent light overhead flickered with a low, annoying hum.

I opened my locker, pulled out my woolen coat, and tossed my backpack over my shoulder.

Clack.

A small, metallic sound echoed from the bottom of the locker.

I froze. Slowly, I knelt down and peered inside.

Sitting right at the bottom of my locker, half-hidden beneath a spare pair of scrubs, was a small, sleek glass vial. The cap was fitted with a rubber septum, identical to the ones used for hospital injectables.

And a faint, unmistakable scent drifted up from the open locker.

Sweet. Almond-like. Chemical.

My breath caught in my throat. Someone had broken into my locker while I was on the twelfth floor. They hadn't just left a warning—they had planted the murder weapon right where I kept my clothes.

Before I could even react, the heavy metal door of the locker room clicked shut.

The lock turned from the outside with a sharp, heavy click.

"Hey!" I shouted, rushing forward and slamming my fists against the metal door. "Open this door! Let me out!"

No answer. Only the sound of heavy footsteps retreating down the hallway.

Worse yet, a faint, hissing sound began to hiss from the top vent of the locker. A thin, sweet-smelling vapor started curling out into the small enclosure, wrapping around my face like cold fingers.