Chapter 7 - The Symphony of Steel
For five hours, I fought the grim reaper for Anthony Grimaldi’s soul.
His thoracic cavity was a war zone of shattered ribs, torn muscle, and a lacerated internal mammary artery that was pouring blood into his chest faster than we could replace it. Twice his heart stopped on the table, and twice I used the internal paddles to shock him back, my voice raw from shouting commands to a surgical team that was on the verge of giving up.
"He’s been down too long, Dr. Collins," the resident said, his hands shaking as he held the retractor. "The brain hypoxia—"
"He is not down!" I roared, my fingers deep inside his chest, feeling the cold, faint flutter of his muscle. "Give me another milligram of atropine! Charge to twenty. Clear!"
The shock delivered. The muscle jumped.
Come on, Anthony. Fight. You built an empire, you survived the streets, you don't get to leave me here alone in the dark. Fight.
A single, slow beat echoed from the monitor. Beep.
Then, five seconds later, another. Beep.
The rhythm began to organize itself, a slow, fragile, but steady sinus bradycardia that filled the quiet operating room like the first notes of a sunrise.
"We have a pulse," the perfusionist whispered, looking at me with an expression of pure awe. "My God, Hannah. You pulled him out of the grave."
When I finally walked out of the surgical pavilion, the sun was rising over the Boston skyline, casting long, golden fingers of light through the glass windows of the lobby. I was covered in his blood, my body shaking so violently from exhaustion and emotional collapse that I had to slide down the wall of the corridor to keep from falling.
A small shadow fell over my shoes.
I looked up. Standing in front of me was a six-year-old boy. He had Anthony’s dark hair and those same, brilliant silver-gray eyes, but they were wide with a terrifying childhood fear. He was holding a small, old-fashioned teddy bear with a missing ear.
Behind him stood Marco, Anthony’s enforcer, his arm in a sling, his face covered in cuts from the bridge ambush.
"Dr. Collins," Marco said, his voice cracking with emotion. "This is Leo. The Boss... the Boss told me that if anything happened, I was to bring him to you. The house isn't safe. The Morettis are looking for him."
Leo stepped forward, his small hand reaching out to touch my blood-stained sleeve. "Is my daddy going to die like my grandma did?"
May you like
I looked at the little boy, the last piece of Anthony’s heart, and the final remnants of my old, safe life vanished into the morning light. I reached out, pulled Leo into my lap, and hugged him tight against my stained scrubs.
"No, Leo," I whispered, my tears falling into his dark hair. "Your daddy is a fighter. And I promise you, I will never let anyone hurt him again."
