Chapter 7 - A Child’s Breath in the ColdBy midnight, the Grand Drake Pavilion had been completely cleared of civilian guests.
The forty senior captains of the Chicago Outfit sat along the thirty-foot mahogany table in the private executive suite on the second floor, their expressions solemn, their hands flat against the polished wood.
At the head of the table sat Don Matteo Rossi.
He had removed his tie and rolled his shirtsleeves up over his corded, scarred forearms.
And sitting in the high-backed velvet armchair directly to his right—the place setting that had been reserved for the future Donna of Chicago—was Clara Bennett.
She wore an elegant dark-blue cashmere sweater and tailored wool slacks that Mrs. Higgins had brought down from the hotel's luxury boutique suite, her blond hair brushed out over her shoulders, her small hands resting in her lap.
On the table before her sat the yellow paper pinwheel and the flattened copper token, resting side by side on a clean linen napkin.
The double oak doors swung open.
Silvano strode into the room, holding a digital tablet connected to the private medical feed from Northwestern Memorial.
"Report, Silvano," Matteo commanded.
Silvano tapped the screen, turning the high-definition video toward Matteo and Clara.
On the screen, four-year-old Ruby was sitting up in a sunlit, state-of-the-art private hospital room, surrounded by three specialist nurses. A thin, transparent nasal cannula delivered pure, warmed oxygen into her lungs, and for the first time in her life, the little girl was breathing smoothly, deeply, without a single wheeze or rattle in her chest.
She was holding a brand-new plush teddy bear, laughing as Mrs. Kowalski fed her warm strawberry pudding.
Beside her bed stood Dr. Elena Aris, the chief of pediatric pulmonology, reviewing digital lung scans with a wide, confident smile.
“The pulmonary pressure has normalized completely, Don Matteo,” Dr. Aris spoke through the tablet’s audio. “Her oxygen saturation is holding at ninety-nine percent on room-air equivalent. The alveolar scarring is mild and will respond exceptionally well to targeted peptide nebulization. Your daughter will be running in the park by spring.”
Tears of pure, miraculous joy spilled over Clara’s lashes, hot and fast against her cheeks.
"Ruby..." Clara whispered, pressing her fingertips against the glass screen.
On the feed, the little girl looked toward the camera, her large hazel eyes bright and clear.
“Mommy! Look! The little blue machine doesn't make any noise! And I can take big breaths like a giant!”
Laughter rippled through the hardened syndicate capos seated along the table. Men who had spent twenty years running freight and commanding street soldiers looked down at their coffee cups, wiping sudden moisture from their eyes.
Matteo smiled—a soft, breathtaking smile that transformed his scarred, dangerous face into something magnificent.
"Rest, little giant," Matteo murmured to the screen. "Your mother is coming home soon."
He closed the call and turned his dark, predatory gaze onto the far end of the boardroom.
Sitting in two iron chairs guarded by four tactical enforcers were Arthur Vance and his daughter Vivienne.
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Vivienne was shivering violently, her ruined emerald gown stained with black grease from the service elevator, her diamond necklace stripped away, her face pale as a corpse.
"Now," Matteo whispered, his voice dropping into that chilling, razor-sharp register that made grown men tremble. "Let us discuss the seventy million dollars in forged pharmaceutical bonds."
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