Chicago Crime Boss in a Wheelchair Hired a Broke Therapist—What She Discovered About His Spine Changed Everything

The plan was suicide, but in the calculus of mafia survival, suicide was often the only option with a non-zero survival rate.

Dr. Mercer could not perform the surgery in a hospital. Any admission of Sebastian Lombardi into a licensed surgical center in Cook County would trigger an immediate notification to the Department of Health—which was directly monitored by Dr. Paul Julian’s office. Julian would have a court injunction, a squad of crooked tactical police officers, or a team of hitmen outside the operating room doors before the propofol had even taken effect.

The operation had to happen inside the compound.

"We need the surgical imaging unit from the warehouse in Skokie," I said, leaning over the estate's floor plans spread across the kitchen island. "Dr. Mercer can't cut blind. He needs a portable intraoperative fluoroscopy C-arm to guide the micro-forceps to the L1 lamina without tearing the dural sac. If he nicks the dura while prying that clip loose, the spinal fluid will drain, and Sebastian will suffer an irreversible brain herniation within twelve hours."

Frank Kozlov was cleaning an automatic rifle with a rag, his face set in stone. "The Skokie warehouse is controlled by Matteo's faction. They run the medical equipment supply lines from the Canadian border."

"Then we take it," Sebastian said from the head of the table. He was strapped into a rigid spinal orthosis I had fashioned from fiberglass cast tape to stabilize his lumbar column after his theatrical display for Matteo. "Frank, take six men. Hit the warehouse at 9:00 PM. Get the fluoroscope, get the surgical pack, and get back here before Mercer's jet lands."

"No," I interrupted, my voice cutting through the men's tactical chatter.

Every head in the room turned toward me.

"A C-arm fluoroscope is not a television, Mr. Lombardi," I said, glaring at Sebastian. "It’s a five-hundred-pound piece of delicate radiological equipment with three separate calibration locks and a pressurized xenon tube. If Frank’s goons throw it into the back of an F-150 like a sack of potatoes, the laser alignment will shatter. When Dr. Mercer fires it up, the image will be distorted by four centimeters. In spinal surgery, four centimeters is the difference between walking and a pine box."

"Then what do you propose, Clare?" Sebastian asked, his voice low, testing me.

"I go with Frank," I said.

"Mom, no!" Oliver cried from the doorway of the pantry, where he was clutching a box of cereal.

My heart shattered at the terror in his voice. I walked over, dropped to my knees, and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his small neck. He smelled of laundry detergent, honey, and the faint metallic tang of his medication.

"Oliver, listen to me," I whispered, holding his shoulders. "Yuri is going to stay right here with you. He’s going to lock the heavy steel doors to the safe room down below. You have your breathing machine, your books, and your bear. Mommy has to go get a special camera for the boss's back. If I don't get it, the pirate can't walk. Do you understand?"

Oliver’s big brown eyes filled with tears, but he looked past my shoulder at Sebastian.

Sebastian looked back at the boy. The terrifying crime boss, who had ordered the execution of dozens of men without blinking, reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a heavy gold pocket watch attached to a braided chain, and held it out.

Oliver hesitated, then walked forward and took it. The watch was solid 18-karat gold, engraved with a roaring lion on the back.

"That watch belonged to my father, little man," Sebastian said, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. "He brought it across the ocean from Naples in 1948. It has never stopped ticking. You hold onto it. If your mother isn't back by the time the little hand hits twelve, you tell Yuri to take you to the roof and call the helicopter. But she’s coming back. I give you my word as a Lombardi."

Oliver clutched the heavy gold watch against his chest, nodding solemnly. "Okay, Mr. Pirate."

Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of an unmarked black Ford Transit van, wearing a Kevlar vest that was three sizes too large for me, squeezed between Frank Kozlov and a burly gunman named Alexei.

The rain had turned into a wet, slushy sleet as we drove north on the Kennedy Expressway toward Skokie. The streetlights smeared across the cracked windshield in long streaks of yellow and red.

"You ever been shot at, doc?" Frank asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

"I grew up in Canaryville, Frank," I replied, checking the battery levels on my digital calipers. "My father was an ironworker who drank his pension and my uncle was a bookie. I know what lead sounds like when it hits brick."

"Good," Frank said, pulling a Glock 19 from under his arm and laying it on my lap. "Because if this goes south, I’m not carrying you. Rack the slide, point it at the chest, pull the trigger until it stops making noise. Don't think about it."

The warehouse was a squat, corrugated steel structure tucked into an industrial park behind a rail spur. The yard was dark, save for a single mercury-vapor light humming above the loading dock.

Two guards in black parkas were smoking under the awning.

Frank didn't tap the brakes. He drove the Transit van straight through the chain-link gate, the lock snapping with a loud *ping*, and pulled flush against the loading dock before the guards could even drop their cigarettes.

Before the tires stopped spinning, the side door flew open. Frank and Alexei moved like professional soldiers—clean, silent, lethal. Two muffled *thwips* from silenced pistols, and the guards collapsed into the wet gravel like empty coats.

"Move! Three minutes!" Frank barked, grabbing my arm and hauling me up onto the concrete dock.

The interior of the warehouse was a labyrinth of wooden crates, shipping containers, and stolen medical surplus. I ran down the center aisle, my heart thumping in my ears, scanning the inventory tags with a small flashlight.

*Ventilators. Dialysis pumps. Surgical packs.*

"There!" I shouted, pointing to a large, wooden crate stenciled with the logo of a German radiological firm: *SIEMENS ARCADIS C-ARM.*

"Alexei, crowbar!" Frank yelled.

The wood splintered under the steel pry bars. Inside, nestled in molded polyurethane foam, was the machine: a gleaming white, C-shaped arch of surgical-grade aluminum and digital detectors.

"Careful with the suspension arm!" I shouted as the men hauled the five-hundred-pound apparatus out of the crate, rolling it toward the van on its specialized pneumatic casters. "If you crack the beryllium window, the tube will blow!"

Suddenly, the high-pitched shriek of tires echoed from the street outside.

Headlights—half a dozen pairs—flooded the open warehouse doors, blinding us in a wall of halogen glare.