The private medical suite on the lower floor of the Tribeca penthouse was equipped like a modern trauma bay. Stainless steel surgical trays, halogen overhead lamps, and pressurized antiseptic scrub stations lined the walls. Marco sat on the edge of the examination table, his shirt stripped away. His broad, muscular torso bore the scars of a decade of underworld warfare: a pale jagged line across his lower ribs from an…
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