Chapter 2 - The Blood on the Altar Rail
The black Cadillac Escalade shattered every speed limit between the Holy Name Cathedral and the private wing of St. Jude’s Hospital.
Rain lashed against the tinted windows like handfuls of thrown gravel. Inside the cabin, the air was thick with the scent of ozone, wet wool, and the metallic tang of fresh blood.
Arthur sat on the leather bench seat with Chloe pulled against his chest. He held her as if a single loose grip would allow the darkness to swallow her whole. His custom tailored silk jacket was soaked through with rainwater from her hair, and his hands—hands that had signed multi-million dollar contracts and pulled triggers without a tremor—were shaking violently.
“Hold on, sweetheart,” Arthur growled into her wet hair, his voice raspy and cracked. “Stay with me. Look at me, Chloe.”
Her eyelids fluttered, heavy and translucent, revealing faint slivers of hazel beneath. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps that whistled in her chest. Every time her body shuddered, Arthur felt a sharp dagger of terror twist in his gut.
In the front passenger seat, Leo Barnes swung his head around, his face white under the streetlights flashing past. “Mercer is waiting at the private bay. Full surgical team on standby. Nobody outside our bloodline knows she’s in the car.”
“If she loses this baby, Leo,” Arthur said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet and deadly that the security chief visibly flinched, “I will burn the Croft family out of this city block by block until there isn't a brick standing.”
“I know, Boss,” Leo whispered. “I know.”
The SUV screeched into the underground ambulance bay of St. Jude’s—a medical facility quietly funded by the Romano estate for three generations. Before the tires had even stopped spinning, the heavy rear doors were hurled open.
Dr. Mercer, a gray-templed trauma specialist who had patched Arthur up after two separate assassination attempts, stepped forward with a gurney and a team of nurses.
“What do we have?” Mercer barked, his eyes sweeping over Arthur as the mafia don surged out of the vehicle carrying Chloe in his arms.
“Seven months,” Arthur said, his voice raw. “Vaginal bleeding. Extreme physical stress. She collapsed at the cathedral.”
“Set her down, Arthur. Let us work!”
“I’m not leaving her!” Arthur roared, his eyes wild.
“You will drag bacteria into a sterile field if you don't step back!” Mercer snapped back, unflinching despite the deadliness of the man standing over him. “Let me save your family, Romano!”
Arthur’s hands unclasped from Chloe’s dress with agonizing slowness. As the medical team wheeled the gurney through the double doors into Trauma Suite 1, he stood in the hallway, covered in her blood and the rainwater of a wedding that had nearly been his execution.
Twenty minutes passed in suffocating silence.
Leo paced the tiled corridor, his radio buzzing intermittently with frantic updates from the cathedral. Arthur didn't move. He stood with his back against the white wall, staring at his blood-stained hands.
Seven weeks.
Seven weeks ago, Malcolm Croft—the ruthless head of the West Side syndicate—had presented Arthur with a choice. Marry Vivien Croft and merge their territories, or watch Chicago erupt into a bloodbath that would destroy every civilian caught in the middle. And to ensure Arthur’s compliance, Croft had produced photos of Chloe leaving her diner at midnight—photos taken through the scope of a high-powered rifle.
Arthur had made a cold, calculated decision. He had cut Chloe out of his life without a word of explanation. He had let her believe he was a monster who had used her and abandoned her, believing that her hatred would keep her safe and far away from the crosshairs of his world.
He had believed he was playing the hero.
Instead, he had driven his pregnant wife—the mother of his unborn child—straight into the jaws of hell.
The door to Suite 1 clicked open. Dr. Mercer stepped out, pulling off his latex gloves. His expression was grim, but his eyes were steady.
Arthur was across the hallway in half a second. “Is she alive?”
“She is alive,” Mercer said softly. “And so is your child.”
Arthur closed his eyes, a shuddering breath tearing from his lungs as he leaned his forehead against the cool doorframe. “The blood...”
“Placental abruption brought on by severe physical exhaustion and acute stress,” Mercer explained, stepping closer. “It’s a minor tear, Arthur. We’ve stabilized her with IV fluids and tocolytics to stop the contractions. But she is severely malnourished, dehydrated, and her nervous system is completely blown out. If her blood pressure spikes again in the next forty-eight hours, we will be forced to deliver the baby via emergency C-section.”
“Can the baby survive at seven months?” Arthur asked, his chest tight.
“With our NICU equipment, yes. But the best incubator is still her mother. She needs total rest, absolute security, and zero stress. Who did this to her, Arthur?”
“I did,” Arthur said, his voice empty. “I did this to her.”
Leo approached quietly from down the hall, holding a encrypted tablet. “Boss. The cathedral is cleared out. Malcolm and Vivien fled under heavy guard twenty minutes ago. Our boys seized the ceremonial chalice before Croft’s men could dispose of it.”
Arthur’s eyes turned to ice. “And?”
“Cyanide,” Leo reported grimly. “Concentrated enough to stop your heart before you reached the third stair. If you had taken that vow and drank from the cup, you’d be on a slab right now. Vivien wasn't going to drink it—she was going to feign shock when you dropped.”
Arthur looked through the small glass window of Trauma Suite 1. Inside, Chloe lay pale against the white sheets, an IV line taped to the back of her hand, a fetal heart monitor strapped across her bump, emitting a rhythmic, fluttering heartbeat—thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
May you like
The sound of his child’s life.
“Gather the captains,” Arthur whispered, his eyes never leaving Chloe’s quiet face. “Lock down the city. Nobody leaves Croft territory, and no Croft money moves through the banks. We are going to war.”
