Chapter 4 - The Sound of a Heartbeat
Inside the ICU, the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator was the only sound.
Dominic pulled a metal chair close to the side of the hospital bed. He sat down, his large, calloused hands resting on his knees. Up close, Clara looked impossibly fragile. The stark white bandages wrapped around her ribs and shoulder contrasted sharply with the dark bruises blooming across her jaw from where she had hit the marble floor.
He reached out slowly, his fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently brushing against her right hand.
The heavy platinum Rossi crest ring gleamed under the fluorescent lights, looking absurdly large on her slender finger.
“You’re stubborn, Clara,” Dominic whispered into the empty room, his voice losing its iron edge, softening into something almost sorrowful. “I watched you work twelve-hour shifts at that diner. I watched you walk home in the freezing rain because you gave your bus fare to an old woman. I gave you the money for your mother so you could breathe easier. I never meant for you to walk into the middle of a war.”
He traced the back of her hand, feeling the coolness of her skin beneath his fingertips.
“You didn't have to jump,” he continued softly. “My mother has a hundred armed men paid to take a bullet. You had a life. You had a mother waiting for you in Cleveland. Why did you do it?”
Of course, the unconscious girl could not answer.
Only the monitor answered, ticking away her life one steady beat at a time. Beep... beep... beep...
Suddenly, the heart monitor’s rhythm hitched.
The green line on the screen spiked erratically. A sharp, high-pitched warning tone cut through the room like a razor.
Dominic vaulted out of his chair, slamming his hand onto the emergency call button by the bed. “Doctor! Code blue in room four!”
The heavy doors flew open within three seconds. Dr. Alistair, the chief trauma surgeon who owed Isabella his life, sprinted into the room followed by two frantic nurses.
“Get out of the way, Mr. Rossi!” Alistair barked, shoving a crash cart forward.
“Fix her,” Dominic snarled, grabbing the doctor by the collar of his white coat with enough force to lift him off his feet. “If she dies, I will tear this hospital down brick by brick with my bare hands.”
“Mr. Rossi, let go of me or she dies right now!” Alistair shouted back, his eyes blazing with professional fury.
Dominic released him instantly, stepping back against the wall, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles bled.
“Her blood pressure is crashing!” a nurse yelled, ripping the sheets back to check the surgical dressings. “Internal suture failure! She’s hemorrhaging again!”
“Charge the paddles to one hundred joules!” Alistair ordered, ripping Clara’s hospital gown open. “Clear!”
A jolt of electricity surged through Clara’s frail body. Her chest arched off the mattress violently, then fell limp.
The monitor gave a long, continuous, terrifying tone.
Beeeeeeep.
“Again! One hundred and fifty!” Alistair shouted, sweat pouring down his face.
Dominic stood frozen in the corner of the room, his breath trapped in his throat. For the first time in his life, the billionaire crime boss who controlled judges, politicians, and killers was utterly, helplessly powerless. He couldn't shoot death. He couldn't bribe a flatline.
“Clear!”
BAM.
Clara’s body jerked again.
For three agonizing seconds, the flatline tone continued.
Then—a stutter.
Thump.
The monitor hiccuped.
Thump... thump... beep... beep...
“We have a pulse!” the nurse gasped, wiping her brow. “Blood pressure is stabilizing. She’s coming back!”
May you like
Dominic closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. He looked back at the bed. Clara’s chest rose and fell once, twice, three times under the mechanical assistance of the ventilator.
She had survived round one.
