Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Ward
Mara flinched backward as I approached, her bruised knuckles pressing hard against her mouth as if she were trying to physically swallow her own terror.
"You're tracking me down," she breathed, her voice trembling so badly the words barely formed. "Did I... did I miss a spot? Was the floor dirty? Please, Mr. Russo, don't fire me. I need that job. I need the insurance, I need—"
"Stop talking, Mara," I interrupted, my voice uncharacteristically rough as I stopped two feet away from her.
"You don't understand," she sobbed, a fresh wave of tears spilling down her pale cheeks. "Chloe's oxygen levels dropped an hour ago. The hospital administration locked her chart because of the balance. They wouldn't move her to the pediatric specialist without a payment guarantee, and I—I didn't know who else to turn to. I accidentally dropped that paper in your house, didn't I? I’m sorry. I swear to god I didn't mean to cross a line."
Looking at her—really looking at her—the fragile, broken woman standing before me, I felt a sharp, unfamiliar twist in my chest. This was Leo’s widow. A woman carrying my family’s name, living in a squalid Queens apartment, scrubbing my floors while my fiancée spent thousands on floral arrangements that would die in forty-eight hours.
"You didn't cross a line," I said, my tone softening just enough for her to hear the absolute certainty in it. "You should have come to me years ago."
Mara let out a bitter, heartbroken laugh. "Come to you? To the man who runs the North River syndicates? The family that spat on Leo’s grave and left us to rot in the gutter? You would have had us thrown out on the street before I even finished the sentence."
Before I could answer, the door to room 412 swung open, and an exhausted-looking doctor stepped out into the hallway, wiping his hands with a paper towel.
"Are you the mother?" the doctor asked, looking at Mara.
"Yes," Mara gasped, rushing forward and grabbing the doctor’s lab coat. "Dr. Vance, how is she? Can I see her?"
The doctor gave a solemn, measured shake of his head. "We stabilized her temporary airway, Mrs. Ellis, but her lungs are severely compromised. She needs an immediate surfactant replacement therapy and a specialized ventilator transfer to a pulmonary facility in Boston. But..." He hesitated, glancing uncomfortably from Mara to me. "Given the outstanding balance on her account, hospital administration has formally denied the transfer authorization."
My jaw tightened. The cold, ruthless machinery of my world—the world where everything had a price tag—suddenly tasted like poison in my mouth.
I stepped past Mara, looking directly into the doctor's eyes.
"What is the total cost of the transfer and the past-due balance?" I asked, my voice chillingly calm.
May you like
Dr. Vance blinked, taken aback by my tailored suit and commanding presence in a charity pediatric ward. "Who are you?"
"Her uncle," I said, the word feeling surprisingly natural as it left my lips. "Write down the figure."
