Chapter 11 - [HE SURVIVED HIS FAMILY ONLY TO HAVE HIS HEART FAIL]
The rhythm was chaotic. A terrifying, disorganized murmur that hadn’t been there three months ago.
“Salvatore,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “We need to go to the hospital. Now.”
“Ellen, it’s just stress—”
“You are in atrial fibrillation, and your mitral valve sounds like it’s failing,” I snapped, grabbing his coat from the chair. “The synthetic toxin your father used. It weakened your heart muscle. The antidote stopped the poison, but the structural damage is catching up.”
He looked at my face. He saw the terror I was trying to hide.
He didn’t argue. He stood up, taking his coat.
Three hours later, we were sitting in a sterile cardiologist’s office at Northwestern Memorial.
The doctor, a stern-faced surgeon named Dr. Aris, hung the echocardiogram images on the lightbox.
“Your nurse is sharp, Mr. DeLuca,” Dr. Aris said grimly. “Your left ventricle is severely compromised. The tissue is necrotizing.”
“What’s the fix?” Salvatore asked calmly, holding my hand tightly under the table.
“A full heart transplant,” Dr. Aris replied. “But given your age, and the specific chemical damage from this… unusual toxin exposure… the surgery carries a massive risk. The tissue might reject the sutures entirely. Your survival rate on the table is barely fifteen percent.”
Silence filled the room.
I squeezed Salvatore’s hand, my own hands turning ice cold.
“Put me on the list,” Salvatore said without hesitation.
“We have a donor heart that matches your rare blood type right now,” Dr. Aris said. “It arrived an hour ago from a trauma center. We can operate tonight. But you need to get your affairs in order immediately.”
They admitted him within the hour.
I sat by his bed in the pre-op staging area. Anthony and Rosa had come and gone, saying their tearful goodbyes, refusing to believe it was the end.
Now, it was just us.
Salvatore looked at me. He was dressed in a flimsy hospital gown, looking more vulnerable than the day I met him.
He reached over and picked up a legal document from his bedside table. He signed the bottom line and handed it to me.
“What is this?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“It’s my will,” he said softly. “I left the clinic, the house, and everything I have left to you.”
“I don’t want your money, Salvatore,” I cried, the tears finally breaking free. “I want you.”
He reached up, cupping my face in his calloused hands.
“I spent my entire life surrounded by people who wanted me dead for power,” Salvatore whispered, his dark eyes filled with absolute adoration. “And then you walked into my room, ripped that blanket off me, and fought a war to keep me alive.”
He pulled me down, pressing his forehead against mine.
“If I don’t wake up, Ellen,” he breathed, “know that the last six months with you were the only real life I ever had. I love you.”
I kissed him. It was a desperate, fierce kiss, tasting of salt and impending grief.
“You come back to me,” I ordered him against his lips.
The nurses came to wheel him away. I stood in the hallway, watching the double doors of the OR swing shut.
Seven hours passed.
At 4:15 AM, the OR doors opened.
May you like
Dr. Aris walked out. He pulled his surgical mask down.
His face was completely unreadable.
