Chapter 3 - The Physician’s Diagnosis
“Move,” Dr. Reynolds said sharply, breaking the trance that had paralyzed the hallway.
He didn't waste another second. Stepping past the security guards, the doctor rushed into the study, his leather medical bag slapping against his thigh. He dropped to his knees on the other side of Adrian Moretti’s sprawling frame, ignoring the broken crystal and the spilled water.
Elena didn't wait for permission. She darted forward, scooped Sophia up into her arms so fast the little girl dropped her notebook, and yanked her back into the safety of the corridor, pressing her daughter’s face against her shoulder.
“You could have been killed,” Elena sobbed quietly into Sophia’s hair, her knees trembling so badly she had to lean against the mahogany wall for support.
“The dog was lonely, Mommy,” Sophia mumbled against her neck, completely unaware that she had just rewritten the rules of survival in the Moretti household.
Inside the study, Dr. Reynolds was already working with swift, practiced efficiency. He ripped open Adrian’s collar, pressed two fingers against the carotid artery in his neck, and pulled a stethoscope from his pocket.
“Dante,” the doctor called out, his voice tense. “Help me roll him onto his back. Careful with his left arm—it’s pinned.”
Dante stepped over the threshold, his eyes flicking once to Titan. The dog remained lying down, his chin resting near the spot where Sophia’s notebook had fallen, watching every movement the doctor made with heavy, watchful eyes, but offering no resistance.
Together, Dante and Dr. Reynolds shifted Adrian’s dead weight.
The mafia boss’s face was ashen, slick with cold sweat. A faint, ugly purple bruise was already forming along his jawline where he must have struck the edge of the heavy oak desk before collapsing.
“What happened to him?” Dante demanded, his voice dropping into the gravelly register he used when dealing business matters.
“Blood pressure plummeted,” Dr. Reynolds said briskly, shining a penlight into Adrian’s unreactive pupils. “He’s running a severe systemic infection masked by sheer willpower and entirely too much caffeine. I warned him two weeks ago that if he didn't slow down after that warehouse fire in South Boston, his body would force the issue.”
“Is it bad?”
“He’s in septic shock, Dante,” Dr. Reynolds said, opening his bag and pulling out a pre-loaded syringe. “If we don't get an IV line started and transport him to the private wing at St. Jude’s within the hour, he won't make it through the night.”
Elena clutched Sophia tighter, listening from the doorway.
For eight months, Adrian Moretti had been a ghost to her—a looming, terrifying presence who occasionally walked the corridors of his estate like a dark shadow, a man whose name made local news anchors lower their voices and local politicians clear their schedules. He was the boss. The untouchable.
Seeing him now—limp, pale, and breathing with a ragged rattle—he looked entirely human. Too human.
“Get the transport ready in the subterranean garage,” Dante ordered two guards who had crowded behind him. “No sirens. No attention from the street. Use the black Suburban with the reinforced plating.”
“Wait,” Dr. Reynolds interrupted, looking up from Adrian’s chest. “He’s waking up.”
A low groan vibrated in Adrian’s chest.
His dark lashes fluttered, fighting against the heavy fog of unconsciousness. Slowly, painfully, his eyes opened.
They weren't the cold, calculating eyes people whispered about in the city’s underground clubs. They were clouded, unfocused, and bloodshot.
Adrian tried to lift his head, his brow furrowing in immediate irritation as the room spun around him.
“Get... get off the floor,” he rasped, his voice rough as sandpaper.
“Shut up and lie still, Adrian,” Dr. Reynolds scolded without looking up, plunging the needle into the vein of Adrian’s forearm. “You tried to check out early. Your organs are staging a mutiny.”
Adrian hissed through his teeth at the sting of the needle, his dark gaze darting around the room—past the broken glass, past Dante, past the guards standing awkwardly in the doorway.
Then, his eyes landed on the floor near his right hand.
A cheap, dog-eared notebook with a crude drawing of a blue-haired horse rested against the carpet.
Adrian frowned, his fingers twitching against the rug until they brushed the edge of the paper. He looked up, his gaze following the line of sight from the notebook to the doorway where Elena stood holding Sophia.
For three long seconds, the most feared man in Boston stared directly at a five-year-old girl in a pink sweater.
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Sophia didn't hide. She peeked out from over her mother’s shoulder and gave him a small, solemn wave.
Adrian Moretti did not frown. He did not yell. He simply closed his eyes again, letting out a long, slow breath as unconsciousness dragged him back under.
