Chapter 2 - Lock Down the Floor
The fourth floor of Lakeview Medical transformed into a fortress within ten minutes. Men in tailored black overcoats and tactical earpieces took up positions at every junction. The hospital staff moved in stunned silence, intimidated by the sheer aura of organized force, yet reassured by the absolute discipline of my soldiers. Not a single patient was disturbed; not a single doctor was hindered. My men were shadows, but shadows with teeth.
I stood outside Operating Room 3, pacing the length of the linoleum floor. The cold air inside the hospital smelled of iodine, antiseptic, and old snow tracked in from wet boots. Every time the red indicator light above the door flashed, my jaw tightened.
Franco, my second-in-command for street operations, approached with his overcoat dusted in fresh frost. “Donovan’s men are probing the perimeter, Boss. Two black sedans circled the ambulance bay on Harrison Street. They had long guns in the backseat. We ran the plates; they belong to Donovan’s front company in Gary.”
“Did they engage?” I asked, keeping my voice low so as not to alarm a frightened family sitting three doors down.
“No. When they saw six of our boys stepped out with assault rifles, they backed off. But they’re getting desperate. Donovan knows if Enzo survives the ambush, we have the ledger that links his crew to the port authority bribery ring. He has to kill Enzo tonight, or he has to find something bigger to bargain with.”
“He won’t touch Enzo,” I said coldly. “And he will never lay eyes on this girl.”
Hannah Cole emerged through the double doors, pulling off her blue surgical cap. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, and her scrubs had dark specks of blood near the collar, but there was relief written across her exhausted features.
“Mr. Mancini?” she breathed, pulling down her mask.
I took two long strides toward her. “Tell me.”
“She’s out of surgery. Your blood gave her the volume she needed to withstand the vascular repair. The surgeon managed to stop the internal hemorrhage without needing to remove her spleen. She’s still in critical condition, but her vitals are stabilizing. We’re transferring her to pediatric intensive care right now.”
A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding rushed out of my chest. For the first time in seventeen years, a knot behind my ribs began to loosen. “Can I see her?”
“Only for a moment,” Hannah whispered, glancing at the security guards lining the hallway. “Technically, only immediate family is allowed inside the recovery bay until visiting hours.”
“I am her family,” I stated. The words slipped past my lips before my conscious mind could filter them. It wasn't an arrogant claim of ownership; it was an undeniable instinct vibrating in my bones.
Hannah didn’t challenge me. Perhaps she sensed the raw intensity behind my stare, or perhaps she recognized that without my blood, the girl would already be in the morgue. She led me through the pressurized doors into the recovery ward.
Elena looked smaller beneath the heavy thermal blankets. Machines hummed gently around her bed, tracking the steady rise and fall of her chest. With the surgical mask removed, her resemblance to Sofia was staggering—the high cheekbones, the delicate arc of her brows, the faint dusting of freckles over her nose.
I moved closer, my large, calloused fingers hovering over the edge of the mattress. Carefully, gently, as if she were made of spun glass, I reached out and brushed a stray lock of raven hair away from her temple.
Her skin was warm now. My blood was moving through her heart, keeping her alive in this frozen city.
Suddenly, her eyelids fluttered. She let out a soft, dry whimper, her lips parting slightly.
May you like
“Mom...?” she whispered, her voice barely a thread in the sterile quiet.
My throat constricted with an emotion so fierce and unfamiliar it terrified me. “Rest, little one,” I murmured in Italian, my voice softer than anyone in Chicago had heard in decades. “You’re safe now. No one will ever hurt you again.”
