Chapter 3 - Blood Ties
The trauma bay smelled of antiseptic and ozone. A team of six doctors and nurses in blue scrubs rushed forward, wheels squealing on linoleum as they pushed a pediatric gurney toward us.
“Vitals!” Dr. Vance, the lead pediatric hematologist, shouted, catching Samuel as Dominic gently laid him down.
“Temperature 104.2,” a nurse called out, clipping a tiny sensor to Sam’s pale index finger. “Pulse thready, 160. Oxygen saturation dropping to 88 percent.”
“He has the Rh-null variant,” I shouted over the din, fighting through the exhaustion that made my knees wobble. “Pre-B cell dysfunction. His bone marrow has shut down. His hemoglobin is under four!”
Dr. Vance looked up, his eyes widening as he recognized Dominic standing behind me, rain dripping from his black tuxedo onto the sterile floor. “Mr. Russo? We received your emergency directive. Are you the biological father?”
“Yes,” Dominic said without an ounce of hesitation. He tore off his bow tie, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled his white sleeves past his forearms, revealing the dark, winding ink of the Russo crest intertwined with old scar tissue. “Take whatever you need. A pint. Two pints. Bone marrow. Take it now.”
“We need to run an immediate HLA typing cross-match,” Vance said, gesturing to a phlebotomist. “If you’re a match, we can do an emergency granulocyte and platelet transfusion directly to stabilize the acute collapse, followed by stem cell prep.”
Dominic sat on a low stool beside the gurney. He didn't flinch when the nurse plunged a large-gauge needle into the crook of his elbow, his dark eyes never leaving Samuel’s tiny, waxen face.
Noah and Lucas sat on an adjacent plastic bench, their small sneakers swinging six inches above the floor. They were holding paper cups of apple juice a nurse had given them, but neither was drinking. Lucas stared at Dominic’s tattooed arm, his brow furrowed.
“Is he going to fix Sam?” Lucas asked me, his little voice trembling.
I knelt before my boys, smoothing back their damp, dark curls. “He’s trying, baby. He’s giving Sam his blood.”
“Because he’s the Dad?” Noah asked quietly. “The one in the photo under your pillow?”
Dominic’s head whipped around. The needle was still drawing dark crimson into a vacuum bag, but his gaze pinned me to the floor. The raw, unguarded pain in his eyes made my throat ache. He had realized that even while running for my life, I hadn't erased him from their world.
“You kept my picture?” he murmured.
“I wanted them to know they were made from love, not a transaction,” I said defensively, wiping rain and tears from my cheek. “I didn't want them to think their father was a monster who abandoned them.”
“I never abandoned you, Maya,” Dominic said, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I would have crawled on broken glass across Europe to get back to that brownstone if I knew you were carrying them.”
Before I could answer, the heavy double doors of the pediatric wing banged open.
Two armed hospital security guards backed into the hallway, hands raised in surrender. Behind them stepped Victor Russo, accompanied by four men in tailored charcoal suits—soldiers of the North End syndicate.
Victor looked around the sterile ward with utter contempt, leaning heavily on his silver cane. “This circus ends now,” the old man announced, his voice vibrating with venom. “Dominic, stand up. The Avery family has called an emergency council meeting at the Harvard Club. You have thirty minutes to salvage this family's standing before the commission moves to strip your leadership.”
The medical staff froze. Dr. Vance looked terrified; anyone living in this city knew that a word from Victor Russo could end a career or a life.
Dominic didn't flinch. He slowly turned his head, watching the dark blood flow through the clear plastic tube into the collection pouch.
“You have three seconds to get out of this hospital, Victor,” Dominic said softly.
Victor laughed—a dry, rattling sound. “You’re throwing away an empire for a waitress and three sick brats who could belong to any dock worker in South Boston!”
A terrifying silence fell over the room.
Lucas and Noah shrank back against me, sensing the violence vibrating through the air. I wrapped my arms around them, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Dominic reached up with his free hand, ripped the IV needle directly out of his vein, and stood. Blood trickled down his forearm, staining his white cuff red, but he didn't even notice.
He walked toward his father. Every step was deliberate, heavy, and lethal. The four armed guards tensed, their hands dropping toward their waistbands, but they didn't dare draw. Dominic had led them through two cartel wars; they knew exactly what he was capable of.
Dominic stopped an inch from Victor’s face. He was taller, broader, and fueled by a father’s primal rage.
May you like
“Say another word about my sons,” Dominic whispered, “and I will execute you right here in front of these nurses. Try me, old man. See whose orders these men follow when the trigger is pulled.”
***
