Chapter 2 - The Envelope on the Driveway
The heavy Maybach surged forward, tires biting into the slick cobblestones as Dante took the wheel himself, sending gravel spraying across the manicured lawn. His headlights cut through the gloom of the sprawling private estate, catching the dripping bronze branches of the weeping willows that lined the driveway.
Then his eyes snagged on something white fluttering against the curb near the front gates.
Dante slammed on the brakes. The heavy vehicle skidded to a halt, anti-lock calipers groaning against the wet asphalt. Before the car had even fully settled, Dante kicked open the door and stepped out into the pouring rain.
There, half-submerged in a shallow puddle of muddy runoff, lay the thick, folded hospital envelope Isabella had clutched to her chest.
She must have dropped it when getting into the car. Or maybe she threw it away when she realized he was still standing inside his gilded parlor, counting down seconds to humiliate a rival's daughter instead of chasing the woman who owned his soul.
Dante fell to one knee in the mud, heedless of his tailored trousers. His large hands, scarred across the knuckles from a decade of territorial warfare, trembled as he scooped the sodden paper from the cold water.
The red stamp was smudged, but the bold letters still burned into his vision: URGENT FOLLOW-UP — MATERNAL-FETAL MEDICINE, NORTHWESTERN MEMORIAL.
He tore the flap open with raw, frantic urgency. Inside was an ultrasound printout, blurry and grayscale, accompanied by three pages of clinical typewriting. Dante wiped the raindrops from his eyelashes, straining to read under the beam of his car's headlights.
Patient: Isabella Caruso. Gestational Age: 28 weeks, 4 days.
His eyes skipped down the dense medical terminology, searching for the bottom line.
...intermittent fetal decelerations noted during routine stress test... elevated maternal cortisol indices consistent with prolonged emotional distress... evidence of marginal placental separation... strict bed rest indicated immediately... high risk for preterm labor if maternal blood pressure spikes...
Dante felt as though a steel fist had reached into his throat and ripped out his lungs.
Prolonged emotional distress.
When she said she would be standing beside you from now on, I waited.
When your friends laughed about me being the temporary wife, I waited.
You had all night to notice I was scared.
Dante pressed the damp paper against his forehead, letting the freezing rain wash over him. For seven months, while he was securing borders, putting down rival syndicates, and trying to build a fortress so impenetrable that no enemy could ever touch his family, his wife was quietly dying inside his own home.
He had placed guards outside her bedroom to keep assassins away, but he hadn't protected her from the snide remarks of society matrons over morning tea. He had bought her emeralds and diamonds, but he hadn't held her hand when her body was failing under the weight of creating a new life. He had brought a monster like Vanessa Hale into their home because Richard Hale controlled the deep-water cranes, completely blind to the fact that his wife was suffocating under his neglect.
His phone buzzed inside his coat pocket. He clicked it to his ear without looking.
""Dante,"" Lorenzo's voice came through, strained over static. ""The rideshare driver dropped her off at a 24-hour pharmacy on North Clark Street twenty minutes ago. By the time my guys reached the curb, she was gone. She went through the rear alley on foot.""
""She can't walk,"" Dante said, his voice cracking, a sob catching in his throat before he swallowed it down into pure, cold fury. ""She has a placental tear, Lorenzo. The baby's heart rate is dropping. If she stays out in this freezing weather, they won't survive the night.""
""Dear God,"" Lorenzo breathed. ""We’re pinging every taxi dispatched in Lincoln Park, but she’s smart, Dante. She grew up in Bridgeport. She knows how people move when they don't want to be found by the Caruso name.""
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Dante stood up from the mud, clutching the medical chart inside his coat against his chest, right over his beating heart.
""Put ten million dollars on the street,"" Dante said, stepping back behind the wheel. ""To every street crew, every beat cop, every cabbie, and every bartender from Rogers Park to the South Side. If anyone brings Isabella to a warm hospital unharmed, they are set for life. But if a single soul touches her, or if she bleeds before I reach her, I will execute every man on duty tonight.""
