Page 2 of Bloom: Part 2

For me? Why?

I kept my mouth shut and nodded. I hadn’t always known what my family represented. In kindergarten, I never understood why no one showed up for my birthday parties. When I was ten years old, Perry Von Lingen told the entire class his dad said that my dad killed people for a living. Upset, I’d gone home that evening and spilled what happened to my father.Perry’s entire family had been slaughtered that very night. No one had been spared.

It took me years to accept the truth—that my father had the Von Lingen family put to death as a warning. I’d known then that I didn’t want to follow in my family’s footsteps.

Cillian nudged me forward, and I followed Uncle Mickey into the warehouse. The space was cavernous and dimly lit by hazy yellow bulbs suspended from the ceiling. The smell of oil, dust, and old wooden crates filled my nostrils. Uncle Mickey led us down a narrow passage between two stacks of crates taller than me. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the low buzz of conversation.

We rounded a corner into an open space. The source of the chatter was a group of men gathered around a long wooden table laden with stacks of money, guns, and blueprints. Of what, I couldn’t make out from where I stood. My father sat at the head of the table, his imposing figure towering over everyone else despite his age. His crystal clear blue eyes were as cold as ice.

“Keegan,” he said, his voice rumbling. “You made it.”

I swallowed hard, meeting his gaze with as much confidence as I could muster. “Cill said you wanted to see me.”

But what did his business have to do with me? I was a doctor.

“Yeah. Follow me.”

When he walked off, I did as he said, and went after him. I’d lived with Marcello Agosti for too long to disobey him. I kept my gaze glued to his broad back in an expensive suit. He never set foot outside the house without a suit on, regardless of the season. I couldn’t recall him busting a sweat either during the summer.

We came to a door he slipped through. Holding my breath, I entered the room, which was larger than I’d expected. Shelves lined the wall, filled with containers, some of which werefamiliar from their labels—dangerous chemicals that should have been safely locked away in a controlled laboratory.

In the center of the room was a table that looked like the ones in the OR at the hospital. Below, the floor had a drainage system, and next to the bed was a stand with medical instruments.

My pulse thundered in my ears as my father, the crime boss, picked up a scalpel. He studied the sharp instrument with the delicate fascination of a man who dealt in bloodshed.

“Pop—”

His gaze was iron-hard, a ruthless determination that left no room for disobedience or disturbance. What did he want? For me to quit the hospital and practice healing people in a warehouse he owned?

“Do you know what this room represents, son?” he asked.

I swallowed, nodding slightly. “A surgery room.”

“But…is it?”

“I don’t understand.”

“This room represents all the years you spent in medical school—that I put you through medical school. It’s time for you to give back, son.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing when I patched up your people—”

“Our people.” His voice turned hard, a steel edge cutting through the air. “They are our people, Keegan, but you’re mistaken. I didn’t build this place for the reason you have in mind.”

“Then what? Because this seems like an illegal medical facility.”

“Illegal, yes. Medical? Not so much. I prefer to think of it as a torture facility.”

“Torture? What does this have to do with me?”

A scuffling behind me made the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. Cillian strode in, dragging a man with him who was bloodied and beaten, his shirt torn.

I let out a soft sigh. So this was it, then? He wanted me to look after a patient without involving the cops? But why did he say torture?

“This is Boris Galkin.”

I stepped back. Cillian dumped the unconscious man on the table and strapped him down. “Boris Galkin.” My throat went dry, and my exhaustion fled. “Isn’t he the son of the Russian mobster, Galkin?”

“Exactly.”

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