Chapter 2 - The Assessment of Value
The private clinic on Commercial Street did not have a sign on the door. To the casual observer, it was simply another brick warehouse overlooking the harbor, but inside, the three surgical bays were equipped with the highest-grade diagnostic machinery money could smuggle out of the medical center.
Dr. Kenneth Vance stripped his gloves off, throwing them into the steel bin with a sharp snap. He looked across the examination table at Rafe, who stood by the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the lights of the inbound ferries.
"The scapula isn't broken, but the muscle tissue is severely contorted," Dr. Vance said, adjusting his glasses. "The baton hit her at an angle that missed the spine by about two centimeters. She’s lucky, Rafe. If the strike had been square, she’d be breathing through a tube for the rest of her life."
"Is she stable?"
"She’s sedated. I gave her a heavy nerve block to stop the spasms," Vance replied, walking to the counter to check a folded piece of paper he had pulled from Maeve’s apron pocket. "But you might want to look at this. It was in her uniform. A formal denial from Boston Children’s Hospital. A cardiac reconstruction procedure for a Finn Donovan. Total estimated cost: eighty-four thousand dollars. The bank turned her down for a personal loan at three o'clock today."
Rafe reached out, taking the paper between his fingers. The ink was slightly blurred from the rain, but the red stamp of the collection agency was clear enough. Finn Donovan. Age: Nine. Diagnosis: Tetralogy of Fallot with pulmonary atresia.
"Where is the boy now?" Rafe asked.
"Leo checked her file," his primary security driver answered from the doorway. "He’s at a boarding house in South Boston. A neighbor’s place. The girl’s been working three jobs since their mother died of pancreatic cancer last winter. The landlord’s already filed the eviction notice for the first of the month."
Rafe stared at the denial letter for a long time, the paper crackling under his thumb. He remembered the way her gray eyes had looked right before she passed out—not pleading for her life, not screaming for help, but looking for a piece of paper that could save a boy she had left behind in a cold room.
"Call the chief of surgery at Children's," Rafe said, tossing the letter into the waste basket. "Tell him the Colazo foundation is clearing the Donovan account tonight. I want the boy moved to a private suite by six o'clock tomorrow morning. The best specialists, Leo. If he sneezes, I want a department head in his room within three minutes."
"And the girl?" Leo asked, his eyes tracking the way Rafe’s gaze drifted back to the bed where Maeve lay pale against the white sheets.
May you like
Rafe walked over, his large hand resting on the iron side rail of the bed. He reached down, his thumb tracing the faint line of a scar on her wrist—an old injury, likely from a kitchen knife or a broken glass from her endless shifts.
"She saved Cecily," Rafe whispered, his voice dropping into that dark, absolute tone that allowed for no argument. "The Lucchese people thought they could take my sister to settle the shipping dispute. This girl took the iron meant for my blood. That means her debts are dead, Leo. And her life belongs to the North End."
