Chapter 5 - The Trap Springs"What did you say?" Elena screamed into the phone, her voice echoing off the sterile walls of the hospital room. "Who took him, Mrs. Alvarez? Did you see their faces?"
"Men in black tactical gear—they had guns, Elena! They didn't show badges, they just cleared the rooms and carried him out wrapped in his blue blanket! They left a phone on the kitchen table. It's ringing right now!"
"Don't touch it! Stay where you are, I'm coming—"
"Put it on speaker, Elena," a cold, iron-hard voice commanded beside her.
Elena turned to find Marco standing by the bed. He had ripped the intravenous lines out of his arm, blood dripping down his forearm and staining the white sheet, but he didn't care. His face had transformed from a broken, grieving man into the terrifying, ruthless syndicate boss who ruled the underworld of New York. The dark, predatory energy was back, tenfold.
"Give me the phone," Marco said, holding out a hand that didn't shake.
Elena, paralyzed by sheer terror for her son, pressed the speakerphone button and held the mobile out between them.
A raspy, distorted voice came through the tiny speaker, filtered through an electronic modulator.
"Dr. Rossi. I trust you had a pleasant reunion with your former employer?"
"Who is this?" Elena cried out, tears streaming down her face. "If you hurt my son—if you lay one finger on Dante—I swear to God—"
"Save the theatrics, Doctor," the voice interrupted smoothly. "We aren't interested in a woman's tears. But we are very interested in Marco Vitali's bloodline. You thought you could hide the boy in Chicago for ten years and play innocent? The Chicago Cell never forgets a betrayal, Marco."
Marco snatched the phone from Elena's hand, pressing it directly to his ear. The warmth in his eyes was completely gone, replaced by a glacial, murderous fury.
"Gallo," Marco snarled, his voice dropping an octave into a dark, guttural growl. "You cowardly piece of garbage. If you touch a single hair on that boy's head, I will personally flay you alive and feed you to the harbor rats."
A low, mocking laugh echoed through the phone. "Oh, Marco. You're in no position to make threats. You're currently recovering from multiple gunshot wounds in a hospital bed four hundred miles away from home. You want your son back? Come and get him. We're holding him at the old rail yards off South Ashland Avenue. Warehouse 14. You have forty-five minutes. Come alone, Marco... or we ship the boy back to you in pieces."
Click.
The line went dead.
For three seconds, the room was completely silent. Elena felt her knees buckle, but Victor caught her by the elbow before she hit the floor, steadying her with practiced efficiency.
"Marco, you can't go," Elena sobbed, grabbing the front of Marco's hospital gown. "You just had major abdominal surgery! Your sutures will blow open! They'll kill you!"
"They took my son, Elena," Marco said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He looked at Victor, who was already pulling a heavy-duty tactical satchel from beneath the room's supply cabinet—a bag that had been smuggled into the hospital hours earlier by his security detail.
"Victor," Marco barked. "Get the cars ready. Call the strike team in from O'Hare. We're going to South Ashland."
"Boss, your vitals—" Victor protested.
"I said, move!" Marco roared, ripping the remaining hospital tape off his arm and tearing off his hospital gown. Beneath it, his chest was a web of angry red incisions and fresh bandages, but his eyes burned with the unyielding fury of a father whose blood had been challenged.
Elena watched him move with frantic speed, grabbing a spare black turtleneck and a leather jacket from Victor's bag. In that moment, she didn't see the man who had broken her heart ten years ago. She saw the only person in the world who could save her little boy.
"I'm coming with you," Elena said, wiping her face with the back of her hand, her voice suddenly hardening into steel.
Marco stopped buttoning his jacket, turning to stare at her. "No. It's too dangerous."
"He is my son, Marco!" Elena yelled, stepping directly into his personal space, her eyes flashing with the same fire that burned in his. "You think I'm going to sit in this hospital room and wait for you to bring him back in a body bag? I am a trauma surgeon. If you get shot again tonight, I'm the one who has to keep your heart beating in the back of a van! Now give me a weapon and let's go!"
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Marco stared at her for a long, intense moment. Then, a grim, dangerous smile touched the corner of his mouth—the exact same smile Dante gave every time he refused to lose a game.
"Victor," Marco said without breaking eye contact with Elena. "Get Dr. Rossi a vest."
