Chapter 5 - THE RACE TO THE HOSPITAL
The words hung in the air, suffocating and impossible.
Unborn child. Surrogate.
Teresa let out a strangled gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. She stared at Luca, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and devastating realization.
“Luca…” Teresa whispered, her voice trembling. “You… you are having a baby?”
Luca crushed the piece of paper in his fist. His jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth would shatter.
“Yes,” Luca said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “A boy. He’s due in two weeks. The surrogate is staying at a private maternity wing at St. Jude’s under an assumed name. Only my head of security knew she was there.”
“But how did Arthur find out?” I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Matteo,” Luca spat, glancing toward the locked coat closet. “My brother must have bribed my security chief before he came here. Arthur knows I broke the engagement. He knows the contract is breached. And he knows the exact room number where my son is sleeping.”
Luca didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his phone from his pocket, dialing a number rapidly as he sprinted toward the grand foyer.
“Giovanni, pick up,” Luca muttered, holding the phone to his ear.
I rushed after him, supporting Teresa as she stumbled on her weak legs.
“Giovanni!” Luca barked into the phone. “Arthur Bellini’s men are heading to St. Jude’s. They’re going after the surrogate. Get every man you have to the fourth floor right now!”
Luca stopped dead in his tracks in the foyer.
He slowly lowered the phone from his ear.
“Luca?” I asked, terrified by the blank, empty look on his face. “What did he say?”
Luca turned to look at me, his eyes filled with a terrifying, hollow despair.
“He didn’t say anything,” Luca whispered. “A man with a Brooklyn accent answered the phone. He told me Giovanni is dead in the hospital parking garage.”
Teresa screamed, burying her face in my shoulder.
Arthur’s men were already there.
Luca moved with terrifying speed. He threw open the hall closet, grabbed two loaded magazines for his handgun, and shoved them into his pockets. He grabbed the keys to his secondary sports car, a sleek black Aston Martin, off the silver tray by the door.
“Hannah, take my mother to the airstrip. Now,” Luca commanded, not looking back as he headed for the garage door.
“I’m not leaving you!” I yelled, running after him.
Luca spun around, grabbing my arms gently but firmly.
“Sarah, this is not a negotiation!” Luca shouted, his eyes blazing with a fierce, protective fire. “Arthur’s men are trained killers. If you come with me, you will die. I cannot protect you and my son at the same time. Get my mother to safety!”
“And what happens when Arthur’s men come to the airstrip looking for her?” I fired back, my voice shaking but resolute. “Your security chief is compromised, Luca! Matteo knew where the surrogate was, which means Arthur knows where the airstrip is. The plane is a trap!”
Luca froze. The realization hit him like a physical blow. I was right. Arthur wouldn’t leave Teresa alive to contest the bloodline contract in front of the Commission. The airstrip was a death sentence.
“Then where do we go?” Teresa cried, clutching my arm.
“The hospital,” I said firmly, looking Luca dead in the eye.
“Are you insane?” Luca growled.
“St. Jude’s is a massive public hospital!” I argued frantically. “Arthur’s men can’t just walk in and start shooting up the lobby. They’ll use the service elevators. They’ll try to take her out quietly through the basement loading docks to avoid the police. I know that hospital, Luca. My mother was there for three months. I know every back hallway, every service elevator, every blind spot.”
Luca stared at me. He was weighing the terrifying risk against the undeniable logic of my words.
“If we get her out,” I continued, my heart pounding, “we can disappear into the city. Arthur can’t find us if we don’t use your money, your cars, or your safe houses. But you need me to navigate that building quietly.”
Luca closed his eyes, taking a ragged breath. When he opened them, the desperate father had taken over the mafia boss.
“Get in the car,” Luca ordered.
The Aston Martin roared to life, tearing out of the mansion’s garage and into the dark Chicago night. Luca drove with terrifying, reckless precision, weaving through traffic at a hundred miles an hour.
Teresa sat in the backseat, praying silently, her hands clutching a small silver rosary.
I sat in the passenger seat, gripping the door handle so tightly my knuckles were white.
“What is her name?” I asked, breaking the tense silence.
“Elena,” Luca answered, his eyes locked on the road ahead. “Her assumed name is Elena Rossi. Room 412. It’s in the VIP maternity wing. Keycard access only.”
“I know the wing,” I said, remembering the times I had passed the locked doors while visiting my mother in the ICU. “The service elevator for that wing empties directly into the basement laundry facility.”
“That’s where they’ll take her,” Luca nodded grimly. “It’s isolated. No cameras.”
We reached St. Jude’s in record time. Luca didn’t park in the main garage or the emergency entrance. Following my directions, he drove the Aston Martin into the dark, narrow alleyway behind the hospital, stopping directly in front of the massive steel doors of the loading dock.
The alley was quiet. Too quiet.
Parked near the dumpster was a nondescript black medical transport van. The engine was idling.
“They’re here,” Luca whispered, drawing his handgun.
He turned to me, his face deadly serious.
“Hannah, you stay in the car with my mother. Keep the doors locked. If I don’t come out in ten minutes, you take the car and you drive to the nearest police precinct. Do you understand?”
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
Luca slipped out of the car, moving like a ghost. He crept along the brick wall, approaching the back doors of the medical van.
He peered inside the tinted window.
Suddenly, the side door of the van slid open with a sharp, metallic clack.
A massive man in dark scrubs stepped out, holding a suppressed pistol. He didn’t see Luca hiding in the shadows. He raised his radio to his mouth.
“We have the package,” the man whispered into the radio. “Heading down the service elevator now. Prep the back doors.”
Luca didn’t hesitate.
He stepped out of the shadows, lunged forward, and slammed the butt of his handgun into the base of the man’s skull. The man dropped to the pavement instantly, unconscious before he made a sound.
Luca grabbed the radio from the man’s hand and tossed his unconscious body into the back of the van, sliding the door shut.
He turned back to the car and gave me a curt, silent nod.
He was going in.
I watched his dark silhouette disappear through the heavy steel doors of the loading dock.
The silence in the car was agonizing. Teresa wept quietly in the backseat, clutching her rosary, praying for her son and her unborn grandson.
I stared at the dashboard clock.
One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic crash echoed from the loading dock doors.
The heavy steel doors burst open.
Luca stumbled out into the alleyway. His white dress shirt was torn and stained with blood. His left arm hung limply at his side.
But with his right arm, he was dragging a young, heavily pregnant woman.
Elena.
She was wearing a hospital gown, barefoot, crying in terror.
“Luca!” I screamed, throwing the car door open and running toward them.
“Get her in the car!” Luca gasped, pushing Elena toward me. He turned back, aiming his gun at the loading dock doors, his chest heaving.
I grabbed Elena’s arm, pulling her frantically toward the Aston Martin.
“It’s okay, you’re safe, get in!” I yelled, shoving her into the backseat next to Teresa.
I turned back to help Luca.
But as Luca took a step backward toward the car, a gunshot shattered the quiet alleyway.
The bullet tore through Luca’s right thigh.
He cried out in agony, collapsing onto the wet pavement. His gun clattered away into the dark.
“Luca!” Teresa screamed from the car.
I froze in pure terror as three men in dark suits stepped out of the loading dock doors, their suppressed weapons raised.
And walking casually behind them, leaning on a silver-tipped cane, was Arthur Bellini himself.
“Well, well,” Arthur smiled, stepping into the alleyway, looking down at Luca bleeding on the ground. “A valiant effort, Luca. Truly. But you can’t outrun a contract.”
Arthur pointed his cane at the Aston Martin.
“Kill the old woman and the maid,” Arthur ordered his men coldly. “And bring me the pregnant girl.”
The three hitmen raised their weapons, aiming directly at me.
But before a single trigger could be pulled, a deafening roar echoed from the end of the alleyway.
Headlights blinded us all.
A massive, armored cash-in-transit truck tore down the narrow alley at fifty miles an hour, smashing into the black medical van, crushing it against the brick wall in a shower of sparks and shattered glass.
The hitmen dove out of the way in panic. Arthur Bellini stumbled backward, his arrogant smile vanishing instantly.
The armored truck slammed on its brakes, stopping directly between us and Arthur’s men, providing a massive steel shield.
The side door of the armored truck flew open.
And stepping out, holding a pump-action shotgun, was a man I thought I would never see again.
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“Get in the truck, Luca!” yelled the man who had hired me to clean the hotel rooms twenty years ago.
Elias Thorne.
