Chapter 2 - The Price of Survival
The ceiling of the ICU at St. Jude’s Hospital was a blinding, clinical white.
Sarah woke up to the rhythmic, rhythmic beep... beep... beep... of a cardiac monitor and a deep, burning fire inside her chest that felt like someone had poured molten lead into her ribs.
She gasped, her eyes snapping open, her left arm instinctively jerking—only to be held down by soft leather restraints attached to the bed rail.
"Easy. Don't fight the straps, child."
The voice was low, gravelly, and entirely devoid of panic.
Sarah turned her head slowly, every neck muscle screaming in protest. Sitting in an armchair in the corner of the private ICU room was Lorenzo Caruso. He was no longer wearing his blood-stained suit. He wore a dark charcoal wool coat, a black turtleneck, and heavy leather gloves. He looked like he hadn't slept in three days.
Beside his chair, fast asleep on a leather cot with his red-and-blue robot tucked securely under his arm, was Leo.
"Where..." Sarah’s voice sounded like dry gravel dragged across concrete. "Where is... Toby?"
Enzo didn't answer immediately. He stood up, his heavy boots making no sound against the rubberized hospital flooring. He walked to the bedside, reached out, and poured a cup of water from a plastic pitcher, offering a straw to her lips.
Sarah drank greedily, the cold water soothing her scorched throat.
"Your brother is safe," Enzo said, his tone flat, measured. "He is currently at my estate in Westchester. He has a full-time private nurse, two months' supply of high-grade human insulin, and an Xbox. He thinks you were injured in a commuting accident and that my company is paying your worker's compensation."
Sarah closed her eyes, relief washing over her so violently she felt lightheaded. "Toby... he doesn't know?"
"He knows you are alive. That is all he needs to know," Enzo said. He leaned over the bed rail, his dark brown eyes holding hers with a terrifying intensity. "You were hit three times, Sarah Miller. One bullet destroyed your left collarbone. The second perforated your lung and grazed your spleen. The third shattered your femur. The doctors said you should have died before the ambulance cleared the Midtown Tunnel."
"Leo..." she whispered. "Is he...?"
"He doesn't have a scratch on him," Enzo said softly. He looked down at the sleeping boy, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before hardening into stone once more. "Because a twenty-four-year-old hotel server threw herself onto cold parquet floors to catch lead meant for a six-year-old child."
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy manila envelope, setting it on her bedside table.
"In that envelope is a deed to a brownstone in Forest Hills. Paid in full. There is also a trust account card initialized with two million dollars. It is in your name. You will never work another double shift at the Halston. You will never worry about insulin, rent, or tuition for your brother."
Sarah stared at the envelope. "I don't... I didn't do it for money, Mr. Caruso."
"I know," Enzo said. "If you had done it for money, I would have handed you a check and forgotten your face. You did it because you have a heart. Which makes you either very good, or very stupid."
He leaned in closer, his heavy shadow falling across her white hospital gown.
"Now tell me about the silver serpent."
Sarah’s heart rate spiked, the monitor accelerating its steady rhythm: beep-beep-beep-beep.
Enzo raised an eyebrow. "My men searched the killer's body before the police arrived. They found nothing. No ID, no phone, no serial numbers on his weapon. But my security cameras caught you looking at him before he drew his weapon. You looked directly at his lapel. Why?"
Sarah swallowed, her mouth going dry again. "He... he was adjusting a tie bar. A silver serpent wrapped around a dagger. He hid it when he caught me staring."
Enzo’s eyes narrowed until they were two slits of obsidian glass. "A tie bar. Not a pin?"
"A tie bar," Sarah confirmed, her memory flashing back to the bright lights of the service entrance. "And... and when he fell... when you shot him... his collar tore."
"What did you see?" Enzo’s voice had dropped to an icy whisper that made the hair on her arms stand up.
"A tattoo," Sarah whispered, looking right into the crime boss’s eyes. "On his collarbone. A three-headed viper... coiled around an anchor."
Enzo went completely still.
For three agonizing seconds, the powerful cartel leader didn't breathe. The colour slowly drained from his face, replaced by a dark, terrible rage that seemed to radiate from him like heat off an engine block.
"The Moretti family," Enzo murmured, almost to himself. "Dominic Moretti."
"I thought... the news said the Morettis were gone," Sarah said faintly. "Three years ago... the Brooklyn dock shootings."
"Dominic Moretti didn't die in Brooklyn," Enzo growled, his fists clenching so hard the leather of his gloves creaked. "He went to Sicily. And he waited."
He looked back at Sarah, his gaze assessing her, measuring her worth in a way that had nothing to do with her hotel job.
"You gave me my son's life, Sarah. And now you have given me the name of the man who tried to take it," Enzo said quietly. "Which means you are no longer just a server from Queens. You are part of this war now whether you like it or not."
Before Sarah could reply, the heavy reinforced door of the ICU room swung open.
May you like
Marco, the lead enforcer, stepped inside. His face was gray, his white shirt stained with fresh sweat.
"Boss," Marco rasped, his voice tight. "We have a problem. The perimeter team at the Westchester estate just went dark. Someone turned off the power to the main house."
