Chapter 8 - When Blood Calls to Blood
The private surgical ward at Mount Sinai was locked down by the FBI within twenty minutes of the ambush.
Federal agents with jackets reading 'ORGANIZED CRIME DIVISION' lined the hallways, but none of them dared enter Room 402 without knocking. Inside, the quiet was absolute.
I lay in the wide hospital bed, an IV dripping fluids and antibiotics into my arm, watching the sun set over Central Park. In the clear plastic bassinet beside me slept Sofia. She weighed six pounds, four ounces. She had a mop of jet-black hair, delicate pink lips, and tiny fingernails that were already curling into tight little fists.
Sitting in the vinyl armchair beside the bed was Nico.
He was handcuffed to the armrest.
Two federal marshals stood right outside the heavy wooden door, their shadows visible through the frosted glass. Nico had surrendered without a fight the moment the paramedics stabilized me in the penthouse. He had laid his weapons on the table, put his hands behind his back, and told the federal agents that he would cooperate fully—on the single condition that he was allowed to stay by my side until the baby was cleared by the doctors.
His face was bruised, a butterfly bandage covering a deep cut above his left eyebrow, his dark suit replaced by a drab green hospital scrub shirt. But his eyes were utterly tranquil. For the first time since I had known him, the predatory tension in his shoulders was gone.
""The U.S. Attorney was here while you were sleeping,"" Nico said softly, reaching out his free hand to gently stroke the soft peach fuzz on Sofia’s head.
I looked at him, my heart aching beneath my ribs. ""What did they say?""
""I signed the proffer agreement,"" Nico replied, his voice calm, devoid of any regret. ""Arthur Crane’s files gave them everything they needed on the Russian syndicate and the corrupt Port Authority officials. But I gave them more. I handed over my personal ledgers. Every shipping route, every shell company, every dirty politician who ever took an envelope from my father.""
My breath caught in my throat. In the mafia, handing over the books was a death sentence. It was the ultimate sin.
""Nico... they'll hunt you,"" I whispered. ""The other families—""
""There are no other families left to hunt me, Elena,"" Nico said, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. ""When Moretti died, the Commission collapsed into civil war. By morning, the FBI will have arrested over forty high-ranking capos based on the evidence I provided. The Vitale empire is officially extinct. It died on the floor of that panic room.""
""And you?"" I asked, tears welling in my eyes. ""What happens to you?""
Nico looked down at his cuffed wrist, then over at our sleeping daughter.
""Arthur Crane and his daughter will spend the rest of their natural lives in a federal supermax for attempted murder and domestic terrorism,"" Nico said. ""Because I provided the key testimony that brought down the entire eastern syndicate, and because I had no prior felony convictions on paper, the judge agreed to a sealed plea deal. Five years. In a minimum-security facility in upstate New York. Eligible for parole in three.""
Three years.
It was a lifetime in the underworld, but in the realm of federal justice, it was an absolute miracle. He had walked into the jaws of a life sentence and emerged with a ticket to freedom.
""Can you do it?"" I asked, reaching out to cover his cuffed hand with mine. ""Can the king of New York survive behind chain-link fences?""
Nico turned his hand, interlacing his fingers with mine, squeezing with a warmth that traveled straight to my soul.
""I survived eight months thinking you were dead, Elena,"" he whispered, his eyes swimming with fierce, unyielding devotion. ""Three years of waiting for you and Sofia will be nothing. It will be the easiest thing I have ever done.""
As if hearing her name, Sofia stirred in the bassinet, letting out a soft, milky sneeze before opening her eyes.
They were not blue like most newborns. They were dark, deep, and rimmed with amber rings.
May you like
Nico gasped softly, leaning over the plastic railing. ""She has your eyes, Elena. Exactly your eyes.""
""No,"" I smiled through my tears, watching our daughter reach her tiny hand blindly into the air until her miniature fingers wrapped securely around Nico’s rough index finger. ""She has her father's grip.""
