Chapter 5 - The Medical Mystery
The sun rose over the Morti estate the next morning, illuminating the shattered windows of the west wing and the scorch marks on the security gate. The attack had been completely repelled; four mercenaries lay dead, two were captured in the basement, and Luca’s security team had locked down the entire compound.
Yet, inside the east wing medical suite, nobody was talking about the attack.
Dr. Harrison, the family’s chief neurologist, stared at the neurological telemetry monitor in absolute, stunned disbelief. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, checked the spinal cord imaging scans for the third time, and then looked up at Marco and Alina with a face as pale as a ghost.
"It's medically impossible," Dr. Harrison whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Her spinal cord... five months ago, the MRI showed a complete axonal severing at the L1 vertebra. There was zero neural conductivity."
"And what does the MRI show now, Doctor?" Marco asked. His voice was dangerously calm, but his hands were clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles were stark white. He had spent the last six hours pacing the hallway like a caged tiger, watching Alina walk—yes, walk—across her bedroom floor with the help of little Sophia holding her hand.
Dr. Harrison swallowed hard, pointing to the glowing green waveform on the screen. "The neural pathways have reconnected. It’s as if... as if the nervous system went into a profound, hysterical shutdown due to psychological trauma, and a sudden, massive surge of adrenaline forced the dormant synapses to fire again."
"Hysterical shutdown?" Marco narrowed his eyes dangerously. "You told me she was permanently paralyzed. You told me she would never walk again."
"In ninety-nine percent of cases, trauma like that results in permanent severance!" Dr. Harrison defended himself, raising his hands defensively. "The brain protects itself by cutting off signals from the lower body when it experiences catastrophic shock. But to reverse it... it requires an emotional catalyst so overwhelming that it shatters the psychological block entirely."
Marco went silent.
He looked over toward the corner of the medical suite, where little Sophia was sitting on a stool, feeding Alina grapes while chattering happily about a drawing of a purple cat.
The emotional catalyst wasn't a machine, a drug, or a surgical team from Zurich. It was a five-year-old girl who refused to accept a reality where her friend couldn't walk.
"Get out," Marco said quietly to the doctor.
"Excuse me, Mr. Morti?"
"Get out of my house," Marco repeated, his voice dropping into a lethal baritone. "You and every specialist I hired. Pack your bags. If you couldn't diagnose a psychological block, you aren't doctors—you're quacks with expensive degrees."
Dr. Harrison grabbed his medical bag and practically bolted out of the room.
Once the door clicked shut, Marco walked over to Alina. She was still sitting on the edge of the examination table, gently swinging her legs—the legs the medical community had declared dead five months ago.
"How does it feel?" Marco asked, kneeling in front of her for the third time in a week, his dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"Heavy," Alina whispered, smiling through her own tears. "Like I've been sleeping for a hundred years and my muscles are waking up. But... they work, Papa. When I saw that man pointing the gun at Sophia... I didn't think about my wheelchair. I just wanted to save her. And my legs... they just listened."
Marco reached out, placing his large, calloused hands over Alina’s knees, applying gentle pressure. She felt every touch instantly.
He stood up, walked over to where Sophia was sitting, and looked down at the little girl.
Sophia tilted her head, looking up at the terrifying mafia boss without a hint of fear. "Is Alina in trouble for jumping off the bed?"
A rare, brilliant smile broke across Marco Morti’s face—a smile that reached his eyes for the first time since the night of the accident that took his son.
"No, Sophia," Marco said, his voice thick with emotion. "Alina is not in trouble. In fact... you're the best doctor this family has ever had."
Sophia beamed proudly. "I told you so. You just didn't listen."
"You're right," Marco chuckled softly, running a hand through his dark hair. "I didn't listen. But I'm listening now."
Just then, the heavy oak door of the medical suite opened, and Luca stepped inside, looking grim.
"Boss," Luca reported quietly, keeping his voice down so the children wouldn't hear. "We interrogated one of the captured mercenaries in the basement. He cracked."
Marco’s smile vanished instantly, replaced by the cold, ruthless mask of the syndicate king. "Who sent them?"
"It wasn't Vance," Luca said, stepping closer. "Vance was just a petty pawn. The man who ordered the hit on your family—the man who cut your son's brake lines and funded last night's assault—is Viktor Vance's older brother... Dante Moretti."
The room went dead silent.
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Dante Moretti. Marco’s own blood cousin, exiled to Europe a decade ago after trying to seize control of the Chicago syndicates.
The war had just reached the inner circle.
