Chapter 2 - The Network Awakens
By 5:00 AM, the amber fluid had completely emptied into Evelyn’s chest port. With trembling hands, Dominic had followed Dr. Reed’s written instructions to flush the line with saline and heparin, his large, scarred fingers clumsy against the delicate plastic valves. Evelyn had fallen into a deep, feverish sleep, her skin burning to the touch. He carried her to the bed, tucked her under the heavy duvet, and stood watch until the first gray light of dawn broke through the storm clouds.
When he walked down to his study, his consigliere, Marcus Vance, was already waiting. Marcus was a man of precise habits, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, holding a folder filled with the details of the botched Boston negotiation.
"Dominic," Marcus said, standing up. "The Boston crew is pushy. They think because you left early, you’re weak. We need to send a message back north before—"
"Forget Boston," Dominic said, slamming his hand onto the desk. "Forget the docks. Forget the shipments. I need every resource we have redirected immediately."
Marcus frowned, setting the folder down. "Redirected to what?"
"Medical data," Dominic said, his eyes bloodshot, his voice raw. "Evelyn has acute myeloid leukemia. She needs a bone marrow transplant. She needs an HLA-compatible donor, and the public registries are empty. I want you to tap into every private clinic, every military database, every illegal medical ring from here to Eastern Europe. We test everyone. My men, their families, our associates. Anyone who draws a breath from my ledger gets swabbed for a match."
Marcus stared at him, stunned. "Dominic... that’s thousands of people. It will raise massive red flags with federal authorities if we start forcefully extracting DNA data or hacking hospital mainframes. The FBI is already looking for an excuse to audit our medical charity foundations."
"Let them audit," Dominic hissed, leaning over the desk until he was inches from Marcus’s face. "Let them bring the whole damn bureau. If Evelyn dies, Marcus, there is no empire. There is no ledger. I will burn this entire city to the ground myself. Do you understand me? Call our hackers in Bucharest. Pay off the directors at the national blood banks. I want a match, and I want it yesterday."
Marcus saw the dangerous, unhinged look in Dominic’s eyes—the look of a man who had nothing left to lose—and bowed his head. "I’ll set up the screening protocols immediately. We’ll mask it as a mandatory health initiative for all logistics and security personnel."
As Marcus left, Dominic pulled up Evelyn’s medical charts on his encrypted laptop. He stared at the complex sequence of HLA strings—letters and numbers that held the code to his wife’s survival. He was a man who understood numbers: interest rates, body counts, shipping weights. But these numbers were a foreign language, a death sentence written in biology.
His phone buzzed on the desk. It was an unlisted number. Dominic picked it up, expecting a business threat or a routine report.
"Dominic," a smooth, cultured voice purred through the receiver. It was Victor Volkov, the head of the Brighton Beach syndicate and Dominic’s most bitter rival in the Northeast. "I heard you left Boston in quite a hurry. I hope you didn't leave anything important behind."
Dominic’s grip on the phone tightened. "I’m not in the mood for your games, Volkov."
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"Oh, it's no game," Volkov laughed softly. "My associates in the pharmaceutical distribution networks noticed an interesting pattern recently. Highly specialized, expensive chemotherapeutic agents being diverted to a private residence in Greenwich. Such a shame. A beautiful woman like Evelyn... it must be terrible to watch her wither away while you sit on your pile of useless cash."
Dominic’s heart stopped, then pounded with a murderous force. Volkov knew.
