Chapter 5 - The Sanctuary of Saint Jude’s
The private ambulance Roman had summoned met us halfway down the Long Island Expressway.
I remember very little of the drive. The freezing rain had done its work; my body was shivering so violently that my teeth were chattering in a fast, rhythmic drum. My fingers were locked around the heavy wool blanket, and every breath felt like inhaling shattered glass.
"Core temperature is eighty-nine degrees," the paramedic reported urgently as they transferred me onto a gurney inside the high-tech mobile unit. "Severe hypothermia. Heart rate elevated—we have fetal distress!"
"Fix it," Roman’s voice came from the darkness beside my head. He was holding my left hand so tightly I could feel his wedding ring digging into my palm. "If anything happens to my wife or my daughter, I will tear this city apart."
"We're doing everything we can, Mr. Kane!" the paramedic said, attaching warm IV fluids to my arm and covering me with thermal heating blankets.
They took us to Saint Jude’s Private Hospital in Manhattan—a facility where Roman was the primary benefactor. The entire high-risk maternity wing was locked down within seconds of our arrival. Top obstetricians, trauma surgeons, and cardiologists were pulled from their homes in the middle of the night.
I was wheeled into a private, state-of-the-art suite. Warm lamps were brought in, intravenous lines were opened, and a quiet, intense team of nurses began cleaning the jagged cuts on my scalp.
Through it all, Roman never left my side.
He refused to let the nurses change his soaked shirt. He sat on the edge of my bed, holding my hand, his eyes glued to the fetal heart monitor that was clicking rhythmically beside my head.
Thump-thump... thump-thump... thump-thump...
The sound of our daughter’s heartbeat echoed through the sterile room—fast, steady, and resilient.
Dr. Aris, a gentle, gray-haired woman who had been my obstetrician since the third month, completed the ultrasound examination. She wiped the gel from my swollen stomach and turned to Roman and me with a deep, compassionate sigh.
"The baby is remarkably strong," Dr. Aris said softly. "The placenta shows no signs of detachment, and her heart rate has stabilized now that Bianca’s core temperature is returning to normal."
I let out a long, ragged breath, closing my eyes as tears finally spilled down my cheeks. "She's okay... she's really okay..."
"Yes, my dear," Dr. Aris said, touching my arm gently. "But you have suffered severe physical trauma, emotional shock, and early stage hypothermia. You are thirty-one weeks pregnant. We are going to keep you under absolute bed rest and sedation for the next forty-eight hours to prevent premature labor."
"Do whatever it takes," Roman said.
Once the doctors finished their work and the quiet hum of the monitors settled into a peaceful rhythm, the room fell silent. The heavy blackout curtains blocked out the neon glow of Manhattan outside.
I lay in the high hospital bed, wrapped in warm cotton sheets. My scalp was bandaged where the shears had cut deepest, and a soft white silk wrap had been gently placed around my head by a young nurse who had wept silently while cleaning my wounds.
Roman sat in the armchair beside the bed.
He looked exhausted. The dark shadows beneath his eyes looked like bruises. He held my hand against his cheek, leaning his head against the mattress.
"Roman," I whispered.
He raised his head immediately. "I'm here, Bianca. I'm right here."
"Look at me," I said softly.
He hesitated, then slowly raised his eyes to meet mine. In those dark, powerful eyes, I saw something I had never seen before: shame. The invincible head of Kane Capital was consumed by a deep, agonizing sense of failure.
"I failed you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I promised to protect you when I put this ring on your finger. I built a empire to keep the world away from you... and I left the door open for my own blood to destroy you."
"Roman," I said, tugging gently on his hand until he stood up and leaned over the bed. "Look at me."
I reached up with my free hand, touching his cheek, feeling the rough stubble beneath my fingers.
"I didn't survive that storm because I was a Kane," I said, looking dead into his soul. "I survived because I am Bianca. I am the girl from Queens who learned how to stand in the fire long before I met you. You didn't fail me. You came for me."
Roman closed his eyes, leaning his heavy forehead against my neck, breathing in the soft scent of hospital soap and my skin.
"She will pay for this," Roman swore softly into my skin. "Every person who stood in that house, every person who touched you, will lose everything they have ever cared about."
"I don't care about them," I whispered, wrapping my arms around his neck as best as I could with the IV lines. "I only care about our daughter. Promise me, Roman. Promise me she will never spend a single day of her life feeling hated the way I was today."
May you like
Roman pulled back, looking down at my bandaged head, then resting his massive hand over my swollen stomach where our daughter was kicking softly against his palm.
"I promise you, Bianca," Roman said, his voice as absolute as judgment day. "She will inherit a world where no one can ever hurt her again."
