Fifteen specialists watched the crime boss's newborn nephew flatline — then a broke night nurse broke every rule in the room.

The minutes stretched into an eternity. The only sounds in Suite 404 were the howling wind outside, the steady hiss of pure oxygen, and the agonizingly long tone of the flatline monitor.

Lauren didn't look up. Her hands were steady, but her mind was racing. She was manually breathing for the nephew of the most dangerous man in the Midwest. If she failed, she knew she wouldn't leave this room alive. But as she looked at the boy’s tiny face, the fear evaporated. He wasn't a mafia heir. He was just a baby who deserved a chance to grow up.

The resident burst back into the room, gasping for air, holding the clean silicone lines and a small vial of clear liquid. "I got it. I got it."

"Draw up 0.2 milligrams of the thiosulfate," Lauren ordered, never stopping her manual compressions. "Establish a peripheral line in his saphenous vein. The central line is contaminated by the plastic."

Dr. Hale stepped forward, his hands shaking. "Let me do it. I'm the surgeon."

"You couldn't find a vein in a map right now, Dr. Hale," Lauren said without looking at him. "Move aside."

She knelt slightly, her eyes locking onto the tiny, faint blue line near the baby’s ankle. With a precision born of thousands of hours on the understaffed charity wards, she slid the needle in. A tiny flash of dark, sluggish blood appeared in the plastic chamber.

"Line is in," Lauren said. "Push the antidote. Slowly. Over sixty seconds."

The resident pushed the syringe.

For forty seconds, nothing happened. The line on the monitor remained perfectly flat. The specialists began to whisper among themselves, some shaking their heads, others already preparing their legal defenses. Alessandro Cassano stood behind Lauren, a dark silhouette, his breath heavy, his gun lowered but still gripped tightly in his fist.

At fifty seconds, Lauren felt a tiny, microscopic flutter beneath her fingertips on the Ambu-bag.

Thump.

The monitor didn't register it yet.

"Come on," Lauren whispered, her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed. "Come on, little man."

Thump... Thump.

A jagged peak broke the flatline on the screen. Then another. The continuous wail broke, replaced by a sudden, erratic beep... beep... beep.

"My God," the cardiologist from Boston gasped. "Sinus rhythm. It’s converting."

The erratic beeps began to smooth out, settling into a rapid, healthy neonatal rhythm of 140 beats per minute. The purple lacing on Matteo’s neck began to fade, replaced by a faint, beautiful flush of healthy pink. A second later, the baby’s chest rose on its own. He let out a sharp, ragged, completely wonderful cry.

The tension in the room snapped like an over-tightened guitar string. Several specialists dropped into chairs, wiping their brows.

Lauren slowly removed her hands from the equipment, her knees shaking so violently she had to catch herself on the edge of the incubator. She looked at Matteo, who was now breathing normally, his tiny fists curling against his blanket.

"He’s back," she whispered.

Alessandro Cassano didn't say a word. He tucked his gun back beneath his jacket. He walked over to the incubator, his large, scarred hand reaching out to touch the baby’s tiny foot. For a fraction of a second, the terrifying crime boss looked entirely human, his shoulders trembling as he let out a jagged breath.

Then he turned to look at Lauren. His eyes were no longer dead; they were sharp, intense, and pinned her to the spot.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Lauren," she whispered. "Lauren Hayes."

"Dr. Hale," Alessandro said, his voice returning to that terrifying, calm authority. "You and your colleagues are dismissed. Leave your credentials on the table. You are no longer permitted to practice medicine in the city of Chicago. If I see your names on a shingle by Monday, we will have a private meeting."