Chapter 2 - THE ER ROOM ULTIMATUMWe arrived at Presbyterian Hospital in Upper Manhattan at 11:52 p.m.
The emergency room was chaotic—nurses rushing past blood-stained gurneys, drunks laughing off New Year's champagne, and families crying in waiting rooms. But the moment I carried Maya through those automatic sliding doors, the entire atmosphere shifted.
You don't spend a decade surviving the ruthless corridors of European syndicates without carrying an aura that commands absolute terror.
"Get a surgical trauma team here now," I said, my voice dropping an octave into a tone that brooked zero argument. I gently laid Maya on a gurney, wrapping my heavy winter coat around little Liam, who was still miraculously asleep despite the freezing air outside.
A senior attending physician took one look at Maya’s pale, gray complexion, lifted the edge of her cardigan, and saw the soaked, infected stitching across her lower abdomen. His eyes widened in horror.
"Internal sepsis," the doctor gasped, signaling a team of nurses. "Her C-section wound has torn open due to severe malnutrition and neglect. Who let her get to this point?"
"Her family," I said coldly, my jaw locked so tight my teeth ached. "Stabilize my wife. Spare no expense. If she doesn't make it, I will personally turn this hospital into a parking lot."
It wasn't an empty threat. Within minutes, Maya was wheeled into an emergency operating suite under armed VIP security protocol—a perk of my underground connections that money alone couldn't buy.
I sat in the sterile waiting room, cradling my newborn son. Liam stirred, letting out a soft, whimpering cry of hunger. I looked down at his tiny, wrinkled face and felt a tear carve a hot path down my cheek.
"I'm sorry, son," I murmured against his downy hair. "Your father was thousands of miles away making dirty money, thinking his family was safe. That ends tonight. Nobody hurts what is mine and walks away."
My phone flashed. A text message from an unknown number.
“Happy New Year, big brother! Wish you were here in Miami with us. The weather is gorgeous, and the mojitos are top-tier. Don’t work too hard!”—Attached was a selfie of my sister Chloe and my mother holding cocktails on a rooftop terrace, smiling brightly.
May you like
I stared at the screen, a dark, humorless smirk touching my lips.
Enjoy the mojitos, Chloe, I thought, tapping out a reply. The bill is coming due.
