Chapter 7 - THE SURGERY
“Antonio!” I screamed, pressing my hands frantically against his bleeding wound. The blood was hot and slippery between my fingers.
Enzo dropped his weapon and fell to his knees beside me, his massive hands trembling. “Boss! Come on, Boss!”
“Pick him up!” I snapped, the shock wearing off and my training taking over. “We have to get him to the clinic right now!”
Enzo scooped Antonio’s limp body into his arms like a child. I grabbed Leo’s hand.
“Close your eyes, sweetie. Keep them closed until I tell you,” I told the boy, steering him away from Marco’s lifeless body.
We practically flew down the stairs into the basement clinic. Maria was still asleep in the corner bay, thankfully oblivious to the war that had just raged upstairs.
Enzo laid Antonio onto the stainless-steel surgical table.
“I’m calling the mob doctor,” Enzo said, frantically pulling out his cell phone.
“There’s no time! He’s bleeding out internally. He needs his abdomen packed now, or he’ll be dead in ten minutes!” I shouted, running to the scrub sink.
I tore off my ruined cardigan and scrubbed my hands with iodine. I wasn't a surgeon. I hadn't even finished my nursing degree. But I had assisted in the ER. I knew what had to be done to buy him time.
“Enzo, I need you to hold pressure right here. Don't let up, no matter what.”
I snapped on sterile gloves. I grabbed a surgical tray, a scalpel, and a massive roll of hemostatic gauze. I looked down at Antonio’s pale, lifeless face.
He had looked for me.
For six years, the most dangerous man in New York had been searching for the girl who held his wife’s hand as she died.
I took a deep breath, blocking out my emotions, and went to work.
I made the incision. The bleeding was catastrophic. I plunged my hands into his abdomen, frantically searching for the severed artery. My fingers slipped on blood and tissue.
“Come on, come on,” I muttered, sweat dripping into my eyes.
Finally, I felt the pulsing tear. I clamped it. I packed the wound with yards of gauze, applying brutal pressure to stop the hemorrhaging.
“Got it,” I gasped, stepping back. My hands were stained red to the elbows. “We bought him time. Get the doctor here now.”
Enzo nodded, his eyes wide with awe. He made the call.
I collapsed into a chair next to the surgical table. Leo crept over, his small face pale and tear-stained. He climbed into my lap, burying his face in my neck.
“Is my dad going to die?” he whispered.
I wrapped my bloody arms around the boy, holding him tight. “No, Leo. I won’t let him.”
The underground clinic remained silent for the next hour until the private surgeon arrived. He rushed in, took one look at my temporary fix, and nodded sharply.
“You saved his life, kid,” the doctor grunted, prepping Antonio for proper surgery. “Go wash up.”
I carried Leo to a small side room, washed the blood off my arms, and rocked the exhausted boy to sleep.
When I finally emerged, the sun was rising. The surgery was over. Antonio was stabilized, hooked up to monitors in a recovery bay next to his mother.
I walked over to his bed. He looked so vulnerable without his tailored suits and commanding presence. Just a man. A father.
I noticed his suit jacket draped over a chair. A piece of paper was sticking out of the inner pocket. I pulled it out.
It was a worn, folded hospital intake form from six years ago. St. Jude’s Maternity Ward. The attending nurse’s signature at the bottom was mine.
He had kept it all this time.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs. The clinic door buzzed open.
I turned, expecting Enzo.
Instead, a man in a rumpled cheap suit walked in, flashing an NYPD gold shield. He was followed by three uniformed officers.
“Detective Miller,” the man said, his eyes sweeping the room, landing on Antonio’s unconscious body, and then on me. He smiled, and it was a smile devoid of any warmth.
I recognized him. He was the detective who frequently ate at the restaurant, always sitting at Marco’s private table. He was on the Moretti payroll.
“Looks like a massacre upstairs,” Miller sneered. “Marco is dead. And I hear the great Antonio Russo is incapacitated.”
“This is private property,” I said, stepping between him and Antonio’s bed.
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“Not anymore,” Miller said, pulling a folded document from his jacket. “With Russo unconscious and under investigation for a mob shootout, child protective services has authorized me to take custody of the boy, Leo. Where is he?”
My heart stopped. They couldn't kill Antonio, so they were going to take his son.
