Chapter 4 - THE DIALYSIS WARD
The black SUV tore through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago.
I sat rigidly in the backseat, wedged between Sabrina and a massive guard whose suit smelled strongly of stale cigarettes. Every bump in the road made my stomach lurch.
I had ten minutes to figure out how to save my mother, save myself, and keep Sabrina distracted.
“What floor?” Sabrina snapped, checking the magazine of a small, silver pistol.
“Fourth floor,” I whispered, my throat dry. “Renal wing. Room 412.”
Sabrina smiled thinly. “You better hope that baby is there, Emily. Because I don't like hospitals, and I have a very short temper.”
My mind raced. Catherine had said the baby was moved three days ago by the nuns. I had no idea where Matteo’s son actually was. But I knew the hospital’s layout perfectly. I knew the security guards. I knew the blind spots.
When we pulled up to the emergency entrance of Saint Jude Medical Center, Sabrina jammed the barrel of her pistol into my ribs, hiding it beneath her deep-red silk shawl.
“Walk normally,” she hissed in my ear. “One word to a nurse, and I pull the trigger.”
We walked through the sliding glass doors into the bright, sterile lobby. The guard flanked my other side. My heart hammered wildly as we stepped into the elevator.
I pressed the button for the fourth floor.
The elevator music chimed softly, a sickening contrast to the gun digging into my side.
“Answer one, open two,” Sabrina murmured, staring at the floor numbers ticking upward. “Did Catherine really think a hospital was a good hiding place? Too many cameras. Too many witnesses.”
“She knew you wouldn't cause a scene in public,” I forced myself to say, trying to sound confident.
“I don't care about a scene,” Sabrina replied coldly.
The doors slid open. The fourth floor was quiet, dimly lit for the night shift. The rhythmic beeping of dialysis machines echoed down the long linoleum hallway.
“Room 412,” I pointed with a shaking finger.
We walked down the corridor. As we approached my mother’s room, my chest tightened painfully. I could see her through the small glass window in the door, asleep in the recliner, the tubes connecting her arm to the massive, humming machine.
Sabrina pushed the door open.
The room was dark. My mother didn't stir.
And the small visitor’s bassinet in the corner of the room was completely empty.
Sabrina’s grip on my arm tightened like a vice.
“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice a lethal whisper.
Before I could answer, my mother’s eyes fluttered open. She looked groggy, confused by the sudden intrusion.
“Emily?” my mother rasped. “Sweetheart, what are you doing here so late?”
Sabrina stepped forward, raising the silver pistol and pointing it directly at my mother’s chest.
“Mom!” I screamed, trying to lunge forward, but the guard grabbed me by the hair, yanking me back violently.
My mother’s eyes widened in sheer terror.
“Where is the baby?” Sabrina asked my mother. “The Moretti baby. Tell me, or you die right here.”
My mother looked at me, trembling. “Emily… what baby? I don't know what she's talking about.”
Sabrina’s face contorted with rage. She cocked the gun.
“I warned you, Emily!” she shouted, turning the weapon toward me.
But as Sabrina’s finger tightened on the trigger, a quiet, steady voice spoke from the shadows of the adjoining private bathroom.
“Put the gun down, Sabrina.”
Sabrina spun around, aiming the pistol at the bathroom door.
A tall man in a dark, tailored suit stepped into the dim light of the hospital room. He was holding a suppressed handgun, aimed directly at Sabrina’s head.
I gasped.
It was Luca Moretti.
His white dress shirt was soaked in blood from the head wound Marco had given him, but his dark eyes were burning with a terrifying, absolute authority.
“Luca?” Sabrina breathed, taking a step back. “How did you get here? Marco—”
“Marco is dead,” Luca said flatly. “You bought my men, Sabrina. But you forgot that I built the syndicate. You can buy a soldier. You can't buy the captains.”
Behind Luca, another figure stepped into the room.
It was Catherine.
She had traded her evening gown for a simple black trench coat. In her hands, she held a small, wooden building block.
“You came to the wrong place, Sabrina,” Catherine said softly, tossing the wooden block onto my mother’s bed.
Sabrina stared at the toy. “You set me up.”
“Emily gave us the time we needed,” Catherine said, looking at me with immense gratitude. “While you were driving here, Luca made one phone call to his loyal captains. They cleaned out our house in five minutes.”
Sabrina’s hand shook, but she kept her gun aimed at Luca.
“It doesn't matter!” Sabrina yelled. “My employers are already moving on your territory! You have nothing left, Luca!”
“I have my family,” Luca said.
Catherine stepped forward, unflinching in the face of the loaded gun.
She reached into her trench coat pocket.
“You said your employers wanted the Moretti territory,” Catherine said, pulling out a faded, folded photograph. She held it up so Sabrina could see it. “But you lied to Luca about who they are. Didn't you?”
Sabrina’s face went completely ash-gray.
I looked at the photograph. It was an old picture, taken decades ago. It showed a young Catherine standing next to an older man with a distinct scar over his eye.
“Who is that?” Luca asked, never taking his gun off Sabrina.
Catherine looked at her husband.
“It’s my father, Luca,” Catherine whispered. “The man you murdered twenty-two years ago to take over the Chicago commission.”
Luca froze.
Catherine turned back to Sabrina.
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“And this woman,” Catherine continued, her voice breaking with a devastating sorrow, “isn't just the mother of my grandson. She’s my younger sister.”
TITLE: THE SCARRED PHOTOGRAPH
