"I'll take over from here," a familiar baritone said.
Gard glanced up from the slash on my leg, frowning at her boss. For my part, I just tugged the puke green mumu she'd shoved into my hands when I staggered through the clinic's back door. Apparently, Hendricks and Gard had arrived with one of Marcone's troubleshooters about ten minutes before I arrived, and the staff was busy trying to dig a bullet out of him. My comparatively minor injury had taken a backseat to the ongoing crisis. I'd sat in one of the exam rooms sore and feeling intense mom guilt as my kiddos continued to offer translations of various curse words. They'd moved from 'fuck' to 'shit' after the seven-minute mark.
Gard had taken pity on me, injecting me with lidocaine before cracking open a suture kit. We were up to around twenty-five stitches now. I'd eyeballed the gash. It would probably take a hundred to close the damn thing, give or take about ten stitches.
"I can handle it," she said.
Marcone stayed silent, giving her an expectant look. The standoff lasted for over a minute, but Gard finally blinked first. She sighed, stood, and washed her hands of my blood, then strode from the room. She muttered something unintelligible before the door swung shut behind her. It left me alone in the beige room with Marcone, and I couldn't help but eye him suspiciously as he took Gard's place on the stool in front of me.
"If you came here to ogle my legs, you're going to be sorely disappointed," I drawled, as he lifted the needle. "I haven't been able to use a shower for days, so the crazy bitch in the warehouse gave me the only shave I'd had for the last week and a half."
And that fact made me feel absurdly self-conscious as Marcone bent over my injured leg. At that moment I wished the cut was at a better angle so I could have sewn myself up. There was an acute sense of embarrassment that came with having my criminal boss see me in nothing but a hospital gown and my underwear. He wasn't trying to get an upskirt shot, but even so, I wanted to tug my foot down into a more modest position in case he felt the urge to peek.
"I came after I heard about Christopher's injury. Running into you was a bonus. I would have asked you to meet me at headquarters at your earliest convenience if we hadn't crossed paths."
"Christopher?" I asked. Well, yelped, really. Marcone had begun stitching me up again, and though it didn't hurt, I'd expected some kind of warning when he started in on my leg.
"Christopher Hall used to be one of my regular bodyguards. He asked for a less dangerous post after his daughter was born, and I obliged."
"Well, that worked out well for him."
Marcone tugged the thread through my skin with more force than necessary. "It was a safe post until the Fomor incursion. Their Servitors were targeting an investment banker working on the Gold Coast. We believe they intended to abscond with him, but Christopher interfered. Mr. Foley only has cuts and bruises to show for the encounter, and nothing appears to have been taken from his home or office. Christopher wasn't as lucky."
"Mr. Foley doesn't cook your books, by any chance?" I asked innocently.
Marcone's lips twitched but he said nothing. He continued stitching, swift and sure as if he did this every day. I'd have put down money he'd been in the military at some point, but he wouldn't tell me what branch if I asked. It would be a hint that might lead me to who he'd been before he steeped himself in all of this.
"So," I mused aloud. "Someone is trying to get to your money guy. That can't be good."
"One of them," he corrected mildly. "And it's the second attempt of this kind in as many days. Someone is targeting people very high up in my organization. I don't have to tell you what that means."
"Someone on the inside is feeding them information."
He inclined his head in acknowledgment, still working his way methodically up my calf. It gave me plenty of time to consider the horrific implications.
Someone who wanted to kill or financially ruin Marcone. Only a few years ago, doing this would have been an elaborate form of suicide. Marcone had ways of rooting out this kind of betrayal. But with the Fomor and every other supernatural nasty trying to carve out a piece of Chicago real estate, we'd been spread thin. We weren't being ravaged like some other cities, but things were still grim. If there was ever a time to try to unseat the purely mortal Baron of Chicago, it was now, while we were scrambling to hold the line. And if Marcone fell, we all fell with him.
"You want me to find out who's doing this."
"Yes," he said simply. "I'm setting up a target they'll be hard-pressed to ignore, and I want you with me when they strike. We need to trace this back to its source."
"Okay. When are you planning to spring the trap?"
"In two weeks. Events take time to plan, and I've doubled security on likely targets in the interim. The dress code is black tie, so I'll have Gard find you something suitable to wear."
A dress. Wow. I hadn't worn an evening gown since...God, had it been since I was rubbing elbows with Nicodemus?
I gave my battered legs a once-over and sighed. "I guess I'll need to shave sometime before then, huh?"
His lips twitched again. "Indeed. We'll meet at the Peninsula Hotel the evening before to coordinate our efforts. Gard and Hendricks will also be in attendance."
He finished stitching me up, cleaned every speck of my blood off under my watchful gaze, and left a business card with a phone number and address on the sink. It didn't occur to me until I was limping home that Gard and Hendricks had been paired together for the event. One unit of two. Which meant that Marcone and I made up the other.
Somehow, I'd agreed to go as his date.