Chapter 6 - The Forty-Eight Hour Window|
"Mr. Valente, please calm down," the surgeon said, his voice flat from hours of intense labor. "We stabilized her, but her condition is critical."
Dominic’s grip loosened slightly. "What are her injuries?"
"Three broken ribs, a punctured lung, a severe concussion, and massive internal bleeding," the doctor explained. "We managed to stop the primary arterial bleed in her abdomen, but her brain is swollen. We’ve placed her in a medically induced coma."
"When will she wake up?" Dominic demanded.
"The next forty-eight hours are crucial," the surgeon replied, looking Dominic straight in the eyes. "If the swelling in her brain subsides, she may wake up. If it doesn't... she might slip away. You can see her now, but only one at a time."
Dominic pushed past the surgeon without another word.
The ICU room was quiet, save for the rhythmic, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the mechanical hiss of the ventilator.
Clara lay in the center of the room, looking tiny against the vast white sheets. Her dark hair was spread across the pillow, her pale face covered in small stitches and deep purplish bruises. An IV line ran into her delicate wrist—the same wrist that used to gently pour his morning coffee without a word.
Dominic walked slowly to the side of her bed.
His legs felt like lead. He reached out with a trembling hand, gently touching the tips of her cold fingers.
"Clara," he choked out, sinking into the chair beside her bed. "I'm here."
There was no response. Just the cold, steady hum of the machines keeping her heart beating.
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Dominic buried his face in the white blanket near her hip, his broad shoulders shaking violently as tears finally spilled from his eyes. He had faced down rival cartels, federal indictments, and street wars without ever losing his composure.
But sitting beside his broken wife, he felt entirely powerless.
