Chapter 4 - THE ST. JUDE’S AMBUSH
The black armored SUV tore through the midnight streets of Chicago, sirens wailing in the distance as police units responded to the silent alarm at Bellavista.
I sat in the back seat between Anthony and Michael. Nobody spoke. The weight of Anthony’s words hung in the air like suffocating smoke.
Granddaughter.
I wasn't just a broke waitress struggling to pay hospital bills. I was the heir to the Moretti empire. Every threat, every bullet, every ounce of bloodshed in this city was tied to my bloodline.
“We’re pulling up to St. Jude’s,” Miller announced from the front passenger seat, shifting his grip on his submachine gun.
The SUV screeched to a halt in the ambulance bay. Before the tires had even stopped spinning, Miller and three armed guards piled out, sweeping the entrance.
“Move, move, move!” Miller barked.
I scrambled out of the car, Anthony right beside me, his hand resting firmly on the small of my back. We sprinted through the automatic glass doors of the emergency lobby. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting an eerie, sterile white glow across the empty waiting room.
The night receptionist was slumped over her desk, fast asleep—or unconscious.
“Miller,” Anthony hissed, drawing a heavy silver pistol from his shoulder holster.
We rushed toward the bank of elevators. The digital display for car number three was stuck flashing on the fourth floor.
“Stairs,” Anthony commanded, sprinting toward the fire exit door.
My flats slapped hard against the concrete steps as we flew up four flights of stairs. My lungs burned, but the adrenaline surging through my veins kept me moving.
We burst through the fourth-floor stairwell door into the oncology and critical care wing.
It was a graveyard of silence.
IV poles were knocked over, saline bags leaking onto the polished linoleum. Chart holders were scattered across the floor.
“Room 412,” I gasped, pointing down the dim corridor.
We rounded the corner.
Miller and his guards were already standing outside Room 412. But they weren't searching the room. They were frozen in place, their weapons lowered.
Standing in the doorway of Room 412 was Frank DeLuca.
He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding a silver pocket watch on a thick chain, swinging it gently back and forth.
And sitting upright in the hospital bed, breathing steadily through a nasal cannula, was my mother.
Only she wasn't sleeping. And she wasn't looking at me with the frail, confused expression she usually wore.
She was smiling at Frank.
“Anthony,” Frank said smoothly, turning his head as we approached. “You’re late. I thought traffic would be better at midnight.”
Anthony raised his pistol, aiming squarely between Frank’s eyes. “Step away from her, Frank, or I’ll blow your head off right now.”
My mother slowly turned her head toward the doorway. Her eyes landed on me, standing behind Anthony.
Instead of looking terrified, my mother let out a soft, melodic laugh.
“Put the gun down, Anthony,” my mother said. Her voice didn't sound like a sick, dying woman. It was strong, clear, and dripping with an authority I had never heard in my life. “You’re pointing a weapon at the man who saved my life twenty-five years ago.”
I stumbled backward, bumping hard against the hallway wall.
“Mom?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “What are you talking about?”
May you like
My mother looked at me, her gaze warm, but terrifyingly detached.
“I’m sorry I had to lie to you, sweet girl,” she said softly. “I had to make the illness look real. Otherwise, how else would we draw the Moretti family out of hiding?”
