Chapter 2 - The Man Who Begged Her to Stay|
The hospital doors swung open at 9:47 p.m.
“Gunshot wound to the right shoulder, possible chest involvement,” the paramedic called. “Patient lost consciousness at the scene. Blood pressure is dropping.”
A nurse rushed the stretcher toward the trauma bay.
Declan followed until a doctor stepped directly into his path.
“Sir, you need to wait here.”
“She's coming with me.”
“She needs emergency treatment.”
“Then treat her.”
“Sir, I need you to step back.”
Declan stared at him.
The doctor was not young, and he had probably encountered men who thought money could buy the laws of physics. He didn't flinch.
“If you want her to survive, let my team work.”
The words cut through Declan's fury.
He stepped back.
The doors closed between them.
For the first time in years, Declan Moretti had no one to threaten, no problem he could solve with a phone call, and no decision that could guarantee the outcome he wanted.
He stood beneath the fluorescent lights, looking down at the blood covering his fingers.
Sophia's blood.
Marcus arrived minutes later, his expression grim.
“The sedan turned west. We lost it near the expressway.”
Declan slowly raised his head.
“Find it.”
“We're working on it.”
“Find the driver. Find the passenger. Find everyone who touched that car.”
Marcus nodded, but he didn't leave immediately.
“Declan, you need to wash your hands.”
Declan looked at him as if he had spoken another language.
“I'm not leaving her.”
“You don't have to leave. But you're covered in blood.”
“Then let it dry.”
Marcus fell silent.
He had worked for Declan for eleven years. He had seen him survive an ambush, negotiate with men who wanted him dead, and stand over the body of his own brother without shedding a tear.
He had never seen him look like this.
A nurse eventually brought Declan to a small family waiting room. He refused the coffee she offered. He refused the blanket. He refused to sit until his knees finally gave way.
He remembered Sophia at the tailor shop that morning, arguing with him over a button.
“You can't wear a jacket with a missing button and expect people to take you seriously.”
“People take me seriously.”
“That's the problem. They need a reminder that you're human.”
He had laughed then.
He hadn't told her that she was the only person who had spoken to him that way in years.
The door opened.
A surgeon entered, removing her cap.
“Are you Mr. Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“I'm Dr. Elaine Foster. Sophia has a serious wound. The bullet passed through soft tissue near her shoulder, but it damaged a blood vessel and caused significant internal bleeding.”
Declan stood.
“Is she alive?”
“Yes. We have controlled the bleeding, and she's in surgery now. The next few hours will be important.”
He gripped the back of the chair.
“Will she recover?”
“We won't know until we finish assessing the damage. The bullet narrowly missed several structures we were worried about. She's receiving blood and every appropriate treatment.”
Declan swallowed.
“Can I see her?”
“Not yet.”
“Doctor—”
“Mr. Moretti.” Her voice softened, but her gaze remained firm. “She needs you to let us do our jobs.”
He nodded once.
The surgeon left.
Declan sat again, staring at the floor.
He had spent years believing fear was useful. Fear made people cautious. Fear kept enemies away. Fear made men obey when reason failed.
But fear could not make Sophia breathe.
He pressed his palms together.
He had never prayed seriously. His mother had taken him to church as a child, before violence and ambition taught him that the world rarely rewarded good intentions.
Now he found himself whispering words he barely remembered.
“Please. Just let her live.”
Hours passed.
Marcus returned with updates. Police had recovered a partial description of the sedan, but the plates were stolen. The shooting appeared deliberate. The gunman had aimed at Declan, not Sophia.
Declan listened without responding.
At 2:16 a.m., Dr. Foster returned.
“The surgery is over. Sophia is alive.”
Declan closed his eyes.
For one moment, he couldn't breathe.
“She remains in critical condition,” the doctor continued. “She's been transferred to intensive care. We had difficulty stabilizing her blood pressure, and she may need further treatment. But she made it through surgery.”
Declan stood so quickly that the chair scraped backward.
“Can I see her?”
“For a few minutes. She's unconscious, and you must follow the nurses' instructions.”
He followed the doctor down the corridor.
Sophia lay beneath a white blanket, surrounded by machines. Her face looked too pale against the pillow. A bandage covered her shoulder, and a clear tube ran beneath her nose.
Declan approached slowly.
He had faced armed men without hesitation.
He was afraid to touch her.
Finally, he reached for her hand.
“It's me,” he whispered. “You don't have to answer. You don't have to fix anything. Just come back.”
Her fingers lay motionless in his palm.
May you like
He lowered his head over them.
And the most feared man in Chicago began to cry.
