The marble floors of the Romano estate had always been a measure of silence, but tonight they seemed to absorb every breath, magnifying the quiet hum of tension that radiated from Aleandro’s frame.

Saint Jude’s Memorial Hospital was one of the many medical institutions quietly funded by Romano-affiliated shell corporations, though the administrators on duty had no idea the terrifying figure striding through their emergency entrance was the primary reason their foundation checks cleared every month.

Aleandro did not use the triage desk. He simply bypassed the waiting room, his imposing presence clearing a path through startled nurses and junior residents as he carried Marisol in his arms while Emma walked tightly beside him, her small hand firmly anchored in the seam of his trousers.

Within five minutes, Marisol was wheeled into a private VIP diagnostic suite on the fourth floor, away from the sterile glare and chaos of the public ER. Dr. Vance, the head of internal medicine and a man whose medical license was essentially under Romano protection, arrived ten minutes later, breathless and buttoning his white coat.

"Mr. Romano," Vance said, eyeing the bed where Marisol lay hooked up to an IV drip pumping saline and broad-spectrum antibiotics into her veins. "The front desk said there was an emergency, but I didn't realize..."

"Save the commentary, Julian," Aleandro interrupted, standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, staring down at the twinkling lights of the city below. "What's wrong with her?"

Vance flipped open the digital chart handed to him by a nervous nurse. "Severe pneumonia compounded by a virulent kidney infection. Her white blood cell count is through the roof. If she had waited another twelve hours... well, sepsis would have taken her."

Aleandro’s jaw tightened. He glanced toward the corner of the room, where Emma sat in an oversized vinyl armchair, eating a cup of hospital-provided apple sauce with a plastic spoon, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.

"Can she stay here?" Aleandro asked.

"In a private suite? Technically, this room is reserved for—"

"I asked a question, Julian." Aleandro turned his head slowly. The dark, steady gaze he fixed on the doctor made Vance swallow hard and adjust his glasses.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Romano. She can stay as long as necessary. Private nurses will monitor her round the clock."

"Good." Aleandro walked over to the bed. Marisol was resting now, the heavy dose of intravenous medication finally easing the frantic shivering that had wracked her body. Her breathing was deeper, more even. He stood over her for a moment, looking at the dark circles beneath her eyes, the raw exhaustion etched into every line of her face. She had been killing herself to keep a roof over her child’s head inside a house that didn't even know her name.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Marcus, Aleandro’s most trusted caporegime and head of security, stepped into the room, holding a sleek black leather briefcase.

"Boss," Marcus murmured, keeping his voice low. "I checked the personnel files from the agency you used. Something’s... off."

Aleandro stepped away from the bed, motioning Marcus out into the quiet corridor.

"Explain," Aleandro said as the heavy door clicked shut behind them.

"The agency placed Marisol Fuentes six months ago," Marcus said, flipping open a tablet. "Her background check shows she was a citizen with a clean record, but our deeper internal audit flags a discrepancy. Her previous employer wasn't a family or a corporate entity; it was a textile sweatshop in the industrial district owned by the Salvatore family."

Aleandro’s eyes narrowed. The Salvatore family were old-world rivals—a fading crew of thugs operating out of the docks, currently trying to muscle in on Romano territory through backdoor distribution deals.

"The Salvatores?" Aleandro’s voice dropped an octave, the temperature in the hallway plummeting. "Why would a woman working for them end up scrubbing my floors?"

"According to our preliminary digs, she didn't just work there," Marcus said, lowering his voice further. "She was an accountant's assistant before they went under. When the Salvatore operation shifted into illegal contraband routing, they tried to force the administrative staff to launder shipping manifests. Marisol refused. They burned her apartment down, threatened her life, and forced her into hiding. She took the housekeeping job through the agency as a desperate way to disappear into a high-security estate where she thought the Salvatores couldn't find her."

Aleandro stared at the blank wall opposite him. A mother running for her life, hiding in plain sight inside the fortress of Chicago’s most dangerous mob boss, working herself to the bone to feed her child while hiding a deadly infection.

"Find out if the Salvatores know where she is," Aleandro ordered coldly.

"Already on it, boss."

"And Marcus?"