Chapter 2 - A Breath in the Storm
The next eight minutes were a terrifying Blur of agony and anticipation.
Dela sat tethered to Liam, watching the blood flow through the thin tube, her mind trapped in a nightmare miles away in Pilsen. Every second felt like a knife twisting in her lungs. She knew what severe asthma looked like when the airways closed completely—the silent, desperate gasping, the terror in a child’s eyes as their brain starved for oxygen.
Salvatore remained by her side, never releasing her hand. He used his free hand to manage his men, barking orders into a radio, clearing traffic routes, and dispatching his private physician to meet the incoming vehicle.
"They have him," Salvatore announced suddenly, receiving a burst of static through his earpiece. "Marco has your son. They’re four minutes out."
Dela let out a ragged breath, tears spilling over her eyelids. "Is he breathing?!"
"He’s struggling, but he’s alive," Salvatore reported, his tone firm and reassuring. "They have him on an oxygen tank from Marco’s trunk."
A minute later, the heavy double doors of the warehouse were thrown open with a deafening crash.
Marco burst through the entrance, carrying a tiny four-year-old boy wrapped in a heavy jacket. Maya rushed in behind him, terrified and wet from the pouring rain outside.
"Mommy!" Leo’s tiny, raspy voice echoed through the vast warehouse.
"Leo!" Dela cried out.
She didn't wait for permission. Dela pulled the transfusion needle from her own arm, pressing a piece of gauze to her vein, and stumbled off the crate. Her legs were weak from blood loss, but pure maternal instinct carried her across the room.
She caught Leo as Marco handed him down. She collapsed onto her knees, pulling her small, fragile son into her arms.
Leo was pale, his small chest retracting violently beneath his ribs as he fought for every tiny bubble of air. His lips had a faint, terrifying purple tint.
"I've got you, baby," Dela sobbed, pressing her cheek against his warm forehead. "Mommy’s here. Mommy’s got you."
She immediately assessed him with trained, expert eyes. "His lower lobes are completely silent. Stridor in the upper airway. He needs a nebulized albuterol treatment with epinephrine immediately!"
"I have the kit!" a voice shouted from the doorway.
A middle-aged man in a sharp suit carrying a heavy leather medical bag sprinted into the room. It was Dr. Evan Vance—Salvatore’s private physician.
"Dr. Vance," Salvatore commanded, stepping over. "Save the boy first."
"But your brother—"
"I said save the boy FIRST!" Salvatore roared.
Dr. Vance didn't argue. He dropped to his knees beside Dela, instantly setting up a portable, battery-operated nebulizer filled with concentrated medication. Dela expertly fitted the small plastic mask over Leo’s nose and mouth, holding her son tightly against her chest as the white, medicated mist began to flow.
"Breathe it in, Leo," Dela whispered, rocking him gently back and forth on the concrete floor. "Deep breaths for Mommy, sweetie. You’re safe."
For two terrifying minutes, the only sound in the silent warehouse was the humming of the nebulizer and the child’s ragged gasps. The thirty mobsters stood in absolute silence, watching the scene unfold with tense, unreadable expressions.
Slowly, as the epinephrine opened the spasming airways, Leo’s gasping relaxed. A deep, long breath filled his lungs. The blue tint around his lips faded, replaced by a healthy, soft pink.
Leo lowered his head onto Dela’s shoulder, his small hand clutching the collar of her janitor uniform. "Mommy... I can breathe now."
Dela buried her face in her son’s wet hair, weeping tears of pure, overwhelming relief. "I know, baby. I know."
Beside them, Dr. Vance quickly assessed Liam on the table. "The tourniquet saved his life, Salvatore. And the direct transfusion kept his organs from shutting down. The bleeding is stable enough for me to transport him to our private surgical clinic."
Salvatore let out a long, shuddering breath. He looked down at Liam, whose pulse was now steady and strong, and then turned to look at Dela, who was cradling her sleeping son on the floor.
Salvatore walked over slowly. He dropped to one knee in front of the young woman in the faded blue uniform.
"You saved my brother," Salvatore said, his voice quiet, deep, and filled with a solemn weight. "And I threatened your life."
Dela looked up at him, her dark-blonde hair wild, her face marked with blood and tears. "You were scared for your brother. I understand what that feels like now."
Salvatore reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a clean, gold-embossed card. He held it out to her.
"My name is Salvatore Brennan," he said softly. "From this moment on, Dela Marsh, you and your son are under my personal protection. Anyone in this city who touches a hair on your head answers to me. Any bill you have is paid. Any problem you have is mine."
Dela looked at the gold card, then at the powerful man kneeling before her in a blood-soaked suit.
"I don't want your money, Mr. Brennan," Dela said quietly. "I just want to take my son home."
May you like
Salvatore stared at her, deeply struck by her refusal. A small, rare smile touched the corner of his stern lips.
"I will take you home myself," Salvatore declared gently. "And tomorrow, Miss Marsh... we are going to discuss why a woman with hands like yours is holding a mop."
