Chapter 3 - The War for Her Breath
Fourteen hours passed.
The sun rose over Lake Michigan, casting a cold, gray light across the hospital lobby. Outside, Chicago was in lockdown. DeLuca soldiers patrolled every block from the Gold Coast to the docks. The streets were quiet, heavy with the terrifying promise of impending bloodshed.
The doors to Operating Room 1 finally opened.
Dr. Vance walked out, removing his surgical mask. He looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling slightly.
Marco was on his feet in an instant, gripping the doctor’s arms. “Is she alive?”
“She is alive, Mr. DeLuca,” Dr. Vance breathed. “It’s a miracle. Three bullets shattered her ribs, one grazed her liver, and one passed through her left lung. We had to perform two blood transfusions and repair her pulmonary artery. But her heart... her heart refused to stop beating.”
Isabella let out a quiet, weeping prayer, clutching a rosary to her chest.
“Can I see her?” Marco demanded, his voice hoarse.
“She’s in the Intensive Care Unit, hooked up to a ventilator,” Vance warned. “She’s in a medically induced coma. The next forty-eight hours are critical. If infection sets in, or if her lungs collapse again...”
“She won't die,” Marco cut him off, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly low, absolute tone. “I won't allow it.”
Marco walked into the ICU.
The room was quiet, dominated by the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the ventilator and the steady, slow beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor.
Lena lay in the center of the bed, surrounded by tubes and wires. Her pale face looked almost translucent against the white sheets. Her tiny wrists were taped with IV lines, her chest wrapped heavily in white bandages.
Marco pulled a chair directly to the side of her bed. He sat down, reached out with a hand that had signed death warrants and controlled armies, and gently touched the tips of her cold fingers.
“Gabriel,” Marco spoke without looking away from her face.
Gabriel stepped into the room, standing at attention. “Yes, boss?”
“The Vasquez crew.”
“We found the shooter’s secondary safehouse in Cicero,” Gabriel reported quietly. “Four men inside. They're tied up in the basement of the meatpacking plant.”
Marco’s eyes remained fixed on Lena’s face. “I don't want them dead yet. Keep them alive until I come. I want to know who gave them the route. Someone leaked my mother’s transfer schedule.”
“And the boy?” Gabriel asked, holding up a file. “Danny Carter. Lena’s brother.”
Marco turned his head slowly. “Where is he?”
“St. Luke’s Rehabilitation Center on 47th Street. It’s... a state-funded facility, boss. Understaffed, run-down. He’s nineteen years old, paralyzed from the waist down after a hit-and-run three years ago.”
Marco stood up. He leaned down over Lena, his warm breath brushing her forehead, his lips pressing gently against her bruised skin.
“I’m going to fix your world, little one,” he whispered against her hair. “You rest. Let me carry the weight now.”
Thirty minutes later, three black armored SUVs pulled up outside St. Luke’s Rehabilitation Center.
Danny Carter sat in his rusted manual wheelchair in the courtyard, staring at a sketchpad with a stubby pencil. His jacket was thin, frayed at the cuffs, barely keeping out the autumn chill.
Suddenly, the heavy iron gates opened. Eight tall men in tailored dark suits stepped into the courtyard, securing the perimeter.
Danny shrank back, clutching his sketchbook.
A tall man walked toward him. He wore an expensive charcoal suit stained with dried blood, an overcoat draped over his shoulders, and an aura of power so absolute that even the clinic nurses stopped in their tracks.
Marco DeLuca stopped two feet from the boy.
“Are you Danny?” Marco asked softly.
Danny looked up, his young face pale with anxiety. “Who are you? Did... did something happen to Lena? She didn't call last night. She always calls at eight!”
Marco closed his eyes for a brief second, feeling a sharp pang of guilt. He knelt down on one knee in the dirty gravel, bringing himself eye-level with the terrified boy.
“Your sister is safe, Danny,” Marco said softly. “She’s... she’s resting. She’s been working very hard.”
Danny narrowed his eyes, studying Marco’s bloody cuffs. “You’re her boss. The one in the penthouse.”
“Yes,” Marco admitted. “My name is Marco.”
“She talks about you,” Danny whispered, his chin trembling. “She said you were a scary man, but that you paid enough to keep me in therapy. Please... don't fire her. If you fire her, I’ll have to leave here. I can go back to the apartment, I can get a job online—”
“Stop,” Marco commanded gently. He reached out and placed a heavy, warm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Danny. Your sister will never worry about a bill again in her life. Neither will you.”
Marco looked over his shoulder at Gabriel. “Bring the transport van. We’re moving Danny to the DeLuca Private Medical Wing at Northwestern. Get Dr. Kross—the best spinal specialist in North America—on a private jet from Johns Hopkins immediately.”
Danny stared at Marco in absolute shock. “What? I... I can't afford that!”
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Marco stood up, looking down at the boy with a fierce, protective oath burning in his eyes.
“You don't pay for anything anymore, Danny,” Marco declared. “Your sister bought your future with her blood. Now, it’s my job to make sure she gets everything she ever dreamed of.”
