Chapter 9 - The Ambush
Three hours passed.
It was 2:00 AM. I was sitting on the edge of the bed in the guest room, watching the storm rage against the windows. Leo was sleeping peacefully in his crib, completely oblivious to the war occurring in the dark underbelly of the city.
My phone, which Ricardo had upgraded to a secure line, suddenly buzzed on the nightstand.
I snatched it up instantly. "Ricardo?"
"Clara... it's Frank," a ragged, breathy voice came through the speaker, accompanied by the background noise of sirens and rain.
My heart stopped. "Frank? Where is Ricardo? Is he okay?"
"It was a trap," Frank gasped, coughing violently. "Dominic leaked the warehouse location to set us up. They had snipers on the surrounding roofs. We fought our way out, but... the Boss took two hits."
"No!" I screamed, covering my mouth as tears flooded my eyes. "Oh god, no! Is he—"
"He's alive, but he's bleeding out fast," Frank yelled over the sound of screeching tires. "We can't take him to a hospital—Marcone’s men have eyes on every ER in New York. We're coming back to the estate now. Get the medical kit in the basement surgical room ready!"
"I'm a senior nursing student, Frank! Bring him straight upstairs!" I shouted into the phone. "Hurry!"
I dropped the phone, ran down to the basement medical room, grabbed trays of sterile bandages, scalpel kits, antiseptics, and IV bags of universal O-negative blood stored in the medical fridge, and rushed them back to the master suite.
Ten agonizing minutes later, the screech of tires echoed from the driveway.
I ran down to the foyer just as Frank and another guard burst through the front doors, carrying a unconscious, blood-drenched Ricardo between them.
His shirt was completely soaked in crimson. His face was deadly pale, his lips turning blue.
"Put him on the bed! Now!" I commanded, all my training taking over as panic gave way to adrenaline.
They laid him on the massive master bed. I grabbed medical shears, slicing his bloody shirt open. Two entry wounds—one in the upper right shoulder, one near his lower abdomen.
"He's going into shock!" I shouted, checking his thready pulse. "Frank, hang this IV bag on the lamp stand! Pressure on the shoulder wound NOW!"
For the next two hours, the room became a war zone of a different kind. I washed my hands in iodine, gloved up, and worked furiously. I used forceps to pack the abdominal wound, applied pressure tourniquets, stitched torn arterial tissue, and pushed fluids through his veins, refusing to let him slip away.
"Don't you dare die, Ricardo Moretti," I sobbed through my mask, wiping sweat from my forehead with my shoulder as I pulled the final suture tight. "You promised me! You promised you’d come back!"
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At 5:00 AM, the bleeding finally stopped. His heart rate stabilized on the monitor, his blood pressure slowly climbing back into the safe zone.
I collapsed into the armchair beside the bed, covered in sweat and blood, holding his cold, bandaged hand tightly in mine, praying with every breath left in my body.
