Chapter 2 - The Suite on the Eighth Floor
The private elevator at New York Presbyterian Hospital opened directly onto the eighth-floor VIP surgical wing with a quiet, pneumatic hiss.
Dr. Sarah Lin, the chief of pediatric medicine and a woman who had patched up my men after dock disputes for a decade, stood waiting in the sterile corridor alongside two senior trauma nurses and an emergency respiratory therapist.
When she saw me strode down the hall in a rain-soaked overcoat, carrying a dying five-year-old child against my chest while an eight-year-old girl in oversized clothes clutched my hand, her clinical mask shattered for three seconds.
"Trauma Bay One," Dr. Lin ordered, snapping back into professional command. "Warm saline bolus, pediatric oxygen cannula at six liters, pull broad-spectrum ceftriaxone and vancomycin stat. Move!"
The nurses took Luca from my arms.
The sudden emptiness against my chest hit me like a physical blow. I stepped toward the glass doors of the trauma bay, but Dr. Lin placed a gloved hand firmly on my chest.
"Let my team stabilize his airway, Vincent," she said, her hazel eyes searching my face with intense, clinical scrutiny. "His oxygen saturation is down to eighty-two percent. He has severe bilateral lobar pneumonia and advanced dehydration. If you crowd the table, you're in the way."
"Save him, Sarah," I growled, my voice shaking with an uncharacteristic, terrifying vulnerability. "Whatever equipment, whatever specialists, whatever blood supply—save my son."
Sarah blinked, her eyes darting to Sophia, who was standing beside my hip with her rag doll held tightly against her chest.
"Go to the private lounge down the hall," Sarah said softly. "I will come to you the second his saturation climbs."
I led Sophia down the quiet, carpeted hallway to the corner executive suite. The room was warm, paneled in light oak, with a leather sofa, private bath, and panoramic windows looking out over the rain-blurred lights of the FDR Drive and the East River.
Marco stood by the doorway, his hands folded over his belt, his eyes fixed on the floor with profound, unblinking respect.
"Marco," I said.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Go to the 24-hour department store on Herald Square. Buy four sets of warm clothes for a girl her size. Sweaters, socks, sturdy boots, pajamas. Bring warm chicken soup, fruit, and fresh milk from the Italian bakery in Brooklyn."
"Right away, Boss," Marco said, bowing slightly before slipping out the door.
I turned to Sophia.
She was standing in the center of the plush rug, staring down at her muddy sneakers, clearly afraid to step on the clean fabric.
"Take off the wet shoes, Sophia," I said, kneeling in front of her.
She looked at me cautiously. "The floor is too clean."
"The floor can be washed. Your feet are cold."
I reached down and unknotted the frayed, waterlogged laces. I peeled off her wet shoes and the thin cotton socks that had holes worn through the heels. Her small toes were pale, almost blue, ice-cold to the touch.
I took a warm towel from the bathroom, sat on the floor, and began gently drying her feet, rubbing the warmth back into her skin.
She watched me. Her brown eyes were identical to Elena’s—the same tilt at the corners, the same dark fringe of lashes, the same deep, searching intelligence that had undone me eight years ago in a coffee shop on Atlantic Avenue.
"Did you love my mama?" Sophia asked quietly.
My hands stilled around the towel.
A tear slipped from my eye, burning hot and silent down my scarred cheek.
"I loved your mother more than my own life, Sophia," I whispered, my voice cracked and raw. "She was the only thing in this world that made me want to be an ordinary man."
"Why did you leave us?"
The question was simple, innocent, and drove into my sternum like an iron spike.
"I didn't know you existed, little one," I answered, looking directly into her eyes. "Your mother left seven years ago because my world was too violent. She wanted you to grow up in the light. And someone... someone told me that she had left the country forever."
The bathroom door opened, and a hospital social worker in a gray wool blazer stepped into the room, holding a plastic clipboard and a thick blue case file.
Her name badge read: Eleanor Vance, Department of Child Protection.
May you like
She looked at Sophia sitting on the sofa, then down at me kneeling on the floor with a towel in my hand.
"Mr. Moretti?" Miss Vance said, her voice sharp, professional, and laced with legal authority. "I need you to step away from the child. The hospital database flagged this admission. These children have been classified as orphaned wards of the state of New York for five months, with zero biological paternity on record. By law, they are in emergency municipal custody."
