Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Chart
Leo’s room was vast, luxurious, and utterly soulless.
The walls were painted a dull slate grey. A massive king-sized bed sat in the center, flanked by state-of-the-art medical monitoring equipment that looked like it belonged in an intensive care unit. The balcony doors offered a breathtaking view of the pine forest, but heavy velvet curtains were pulled halfway shut, blocking out the morning sun.
Leo sat at a small oak desk, staring at an unopened textbook. When Maggie entered, followed by Dominic, he didn't look up immediately. His face was pale, his eyelids droopy—the unmistakable haze of a pediatric sedative.
“Hey, Leo,” Maggie said warmly.
Leo blinked slowly, turning his head. “Hi, Maggie.”
“Mind if I set up some stuff?”
Without waiting for permission, Maggie walked over to the windows and yanked the heavy velvet curtains wide open. Bright, golden morning light flooded the room.
Leo winced, shielding his eyes, but then he looked out at the trees, his pupils dilating as the sunlight hit his face.
“Rule number one of therapy,” Maggie declared, dragging a large, colorful foam mat out of her bag and unrolling it onto the hardwood floor. “No gloom allowed. Darkness makes the brain think it’s time to sleep.”
Evelyn entered the room then, holding a thick leather-bound folder. She handed it to Maggie with an expression that suggested she was handing over a piece of biohazardous waste.
“Dr. Vane’s files,” Evelyn said coldly.
Maggie sat down on the edge of Leo’s bed and opened the folder. She began scanning the medical notes, her professional training taking over.
Leo had been in a car accident three years ago—the same accident that had claimed the life of his mother, Isabella Moretti. Diagnosis: Traumatic Spinal Cord Injury at the L2-L3 level, resulting in incomplete paraplegia.
Maggie’s eyes narrowed as she read further.
Incomplete paraplegia meant the spinal cord was not fully severed. Signals were still passing through. With aggressive physical therapy, neuroplasticity training, and nerve stimulation, partial or even significant recovery of motor function was often possible in young children.
Yet, as Maggie flipped through the monthly progress reports written by Dr. Richard Vane, the treatment plan was shockingly passive. High doses of Baclofen, Diazepam, and physical therapy restricted to "passive range-of-motion stretching twice a week."
They weren't trying to rehabilitate him, Maggie realized, her pulse racing. They were maintaining his paralysis.
She looked up at Evelyn, who was watching her intently with narrowed eyes. Then she looked at Dominic, who stood near the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.
“Leo,” Maggie said, closing the chart and walking over to the boy. “Can I check something? I’m going to touch your toes. I want you to tell me if you feel it.”
Leo shrugged listlessly. “I can't feel my legs. Dr. Vane said the nerves are dead.”
“Let’s just check anyway,” Maggie said softly.
She knelt beside his chair, unlaced his leather shoe, and removed his sock. His foot was cold. Maggie took a small reflex hammer from her pocket. She didn't strike the knee. Instead, she gently stroked the sharp end of the hammer along the outer lateral edge of the sole of his foot.
It was the Babinski reflex test.
For a split second, Leo’s big toe flexed upward, and the other toes fanned out.
A neurological response.
The pathways were active. The nerves were NOT dead.
Maggie’s head snapped up. Her eyes met Dominic’s.
“Did you see that?” she whispered.
Dominic took two quick steps forward, his face dead rigid. “What was that? What did it mean?”
“His brain sent a signal to his foot,” Maggie said, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock and soaring excitement. “The spinal tract isn't severed, Mr. Moretti. The nerves are dormant, suppressed by heavy medication and lack of stimulation. He has sensation potential!”
Dominic stared at his son’s foot, then slowly looked up at Maggie. The raw, desperate hope that flared in the crime boss's eyes was so intense it almost brought Maggie to her knees.
“Are you telling me... he could walk?” Dominic’s voice cracked—a sound that Maggie suspected no associate or rival of Dominic Moretti had ever heard in their lifetime.
“I’m telling you he should be working three hours a day, not sleeping six hours a day,” Maggie said fiercely. She stood up and turned directly to Evelyn. “Who ordered this medication regimen?”
Evelyn didn't flinch, though a tiny bead of sweat appeared at her hairline. “Dr. Vane prescribed it. To manage his severe trauma and muscle spasms. Are you accusing a certified chief of neurology of malpractice?”
“I’m accusing someone of keeping this boy asleep!” Maggie shouted, stepping toward Evelyn. “Look at his chart! The dosage of Diazepam has been increased every four months for two years! That’s not treatment! That’s chemical restraint!”
“That is enough!” Evelyn snapped, her voice trembling with fury. “Dominic, are you going to let this... this outsider accuse us of harming your son? I have dedicated every waking hour to this boy’s care!”
Dominic didn't answer right away. The air in the room became terrifyingly dense, heavy with the terrifying pressure of a man who ruled Chicago’s underworld with an iron fist. He looked at Evelyn. Then he looked at Maggie. Finally, he looked down at his small, sleepy son sitting in the chair.
Dominic walked over to the desk. He picked up the bottle of yellow pills bearing Dr. Vane’s name.
Without a word, he unscrewed the cap, turned it upside down over the trash can, and watched all fifty sedatives spill into the lining.
“Dominic!” Evelyn gasped, clutching her pearls.
“No more sedatives,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register so dark and cold it sent shivers down Maggie’s spine. He looked at Evelyn. “Call Dr. Vane. Tell him he is fired. Tell him if I see his face on my property again, my men will take him for a long drive.”
Evelyn went deathly pale. “Dominic, please—”
“Get out, Evelyn,” Dominic said softly.
Evelyn stared at him in utter shock. She glanced at Maggie with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred—a promise of retribution that needed no words—before she turned and hurried out of the room.
Dominic took a deep, shaky breath. He turned to Maggie.
“When do you start?”
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Maggie looked down at Leo, who was staring at his father in wide-eyed wonder, as if seeing him clearly for the first time in years.
Maggie smiled, rolling up her sleeves. “Right now. Leo, get off that chair. We have work to do.”
