Chapter 5 - A Mob Boss's Hospital
The private eighth floor of Chicago Memorial Hospital was entirely locked down. Armed men in black suits stood at every elevator bank, their presence quiet, intimidating, and impenetrable. The general public wasn't permitted anywhere near the VIP wing; Ronan Vale had purchased the entire medical pavilion two years prior under a charitable donation, ensuring that whenever his family required care, the facility operated under his absolute command.
Inside Room 804, the steady, rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor provided the only sound. Clara lay beneath crisp, Egyptian cotton sheets, connected to two IV lines administering high-dose antibiotics, corticosteroids, and warming saline solutions. An oxygen cannula rested beneath her nose, her breathing now deep and regular, the violent rattles in her chest finally subdued by modern medicine.
In the adjoining luxury suite, Mia had been bathed, dressed in warm cashmere loungewear, and was currently fast asleep on a king-sized bed, clutching a plush stuffed bear that Eli had personally chosen from the hospital gift shop. Eli sat on the floor beside the bed, quietly coloring in an activity book, refusing to leave her side.
"How is she, Mercer?" Ronan asked, standing outside the observation window in the corridor, a cup of untouched black coffee in his hand.
Dr. Mercer adjusted his glasses, reviewing the digital chart on his tablet. "Remarkable recovery in just twelve hours, Mr. Vale. The bilateral pneumonia was severe—another twenty-four hours in that freezing apartment and her lungs would have suffered irreversible septic shock. But her heart is strong. Her fever has dropped to 99.8. She’ll regain full consciousness within the next few hours."
"Good," Ronan said, his tone low and dangerous. "Keep two nurses assigned exclusively to her room around the clock."
"Understood, sir."
Marco walked down the carpeted hallway, holding a thick manila folder. His expression was grim. "Boss. We ran the background checks. You need to see this."
Ronan stepped away from the window, leaning against the mahogany console in the private waiting lounge. "Tell me."
"Clara Hastings went into hiding after the 1999 bombing," Marco began, opening the file. "A low-level lieutenant from the old Moretti faction, Dominic Rossi, tracked her to Milwaukee. He convinced her that you were the one who ordered the hit on her father to silence the union. Rossi told her that if she ever stepped foot in Chicago or contacted anyone, the Vale family would execute her."
Ronan’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup until the cardboard cracked. "Rossi. The snake we thought fled to Florida."
"He didn't flee, Boss. He changed his name, set up a network of slum properties in the South Side, and kept tabs on her. When Clara became pregnant eight years ago, her partner walked out. Rossi stepped in as her landlord on 24th Street. He charged her triple the market rent, threatened to call child protective services if she complained about the heat, and skimmed every paycheck she earned working double shifts at a local laundromat."
A terrifying, suffocating silence descended over the corridor. Even Marco, who had stood beside Ronan through brutal turf wars, felt a chill run down his spine. When Ronan Vale was shouting, he was merely angry. But when he went completely silent, someone was about to be erased from the earth.
"Dominic Rossi made Thomas Hastings's daughter live in squalor," Ronan said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "He made that little girl sit in the freezing mud while he collected blood money."
"We know where his warehouse is, Boss," Marco said quietly. "Near the rail yards on Cicero."
Ronan looked through the glass window into the suite where Mia lay sleeping peacefully, her hand resting near Eli’s coloring book. Then he looked at Clara, breathing quietly in the hospital bed.
"No," Ronan said softly. "We don't bring violence near them. Not anymore. I made a promise to Eli that there would be no scary men today. But business must be settled."
Ronan turned to Marco, his eyes burning with an unholy fire. "Call the city building inspectors, the IRS criminal investigation division, and the State's Attorney. Give them Rossi’s offshore bank records, his tax fraud files, and the code violations for all forty of his tenement buildings. By sunset tomorrow, I want Dominic Rossi stripped of every asset he owns, arrested on federal racketeering charges, and sentenced to forty years in maximum security."
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Marco blinked in surprise. "You want the law to take him?"
Ronan sneered, a cold, predatory smile curling his lips. "Death is too quick for a coward like Rossi. I want him to spend the rest of his miserable life broke, despised, and rotting in a cage where he can never touch another child again."
