Chapter 6 - The Longest Night
At 8:05 P.M., the surgical suite on the third floor went completely on lock-down.
A high-speed convoy of four state trooper cruisers and a temperature-controlled medical transport van screeched to a halt under the hospital’s emergency portico.
Two surgical technicians in sterile jumpsuits sprinted through the automatic doors carrying a heavy blue insulated cooler marked with bright red biohazard donor transport seals.
"Donor heart is on the floor!" a nurse shouted through the intercom system.
I stood outside the surgical viewing gallery on the third floor, my hands pressed flat against the glass, watching the preparation unfold.
Emily was wheeled through the double swinging doors on a mechanical transport gurney, surrounded by eight surgical specialists in sterile blue scrubs.
Her skin was completely gray now, her heart rate fluctuating in jagged, unstable spikes on the central telemetry display.
"Mr. Reign," Dr. Vance said, stopping briefly beside me as he snapped on his sterile surgical gloves. "Dilated cardiomyopathy of this severity carries an operative mortality risk of nearly thirty-five percent. Her body is severely weakened."
I grabbed the front of his surgical gown, my eyes boring into his with raw, unyielding desperation.
"You bring her back to me, Marcus," I choked out, the mafia don disappearing completely, leaving only a terrified man begging for his family. "You bring her back to our daughter, or you never touch a scalpel again."
Vance nodded once, his expression turning grave and determined.
"I will do everything within human power, Nicholas."
The heavy double doors sealed shut with a soft pneumatic hiss, and the red "SURGERY IN PROGRESS" warning lamp blazed to life overhead.
I walked back down the quiet corridor to the private waiting alcove where Matteo had set up a security perimeter.
Lily was sitting on the vinyl sofa, her legs dangling, clutching a small plastic cup of apple juice.
She looked small.
Fragile.
Like a tiny bird caught in the middle of a hurricane.
I sat down on the floor in front of her, resting my elbows on my knees, looking up into her sweet, exhausted face.
"Lily," I said softly.
She set her juice down and slid off the sofa, walking straight into my arms.
I wrapped my heavy wool coat around her small frame, pulling her tight against my chest, burying my face into her soft hair.
She smelled of baby shampoo, clean rain, and the faint scent of Emily’s lavender lotion.
"Is the doctor fixing Mommy's heart now?" she whispered against my neck.
"Yes, baby," I answered, hot tears finally spilling freely down my cheeks into her collar. "The best doctors in the world are working on her right now."
Lily pulled back slightly, her little hands reaching up to wipe the tears from my cheeks with her thumbs.
"Don't cry, Daddy," she whispered.
That word.
Daddy.
It hit me with the force of a tidal wave, shattering every ounce of pride, violence, and cynicism I had accumulated over thirty-eight years of bloodshed.
I pulled her back against my heart, rocking her slowly in the dim light of the hospital waiting room as the digital clock on the wall began its agonizing count into the night.
Nine o'clock became ten.
Ten o'clock became midnight.
Outside, the October storm howled against the reinforced glass windows, rattling the steel frames with relentless fury.
At 1:45 in the morning, the heavy surgical doors at the end of the corridor clicked open.
May you like
Dr. Vance emerged into the hallway, pulling off his surgical cap, his scrubs soaked in sweat, his face etched with bone-deep exhaustion.
I shot to my feet, my heart stopping dead in my throat.
