Chapter 3 - The Cold Stone of the North Corridor
Within six minutes, the master suite had transformed into a sterile, high-end medical clinic.
Dr. Elena Aris, the top obstetric surgeon in Chicago, knelt beside the bed, applying a warm gel probe to Elena’s rounded stomach.
The room fell silent as the steady, rapid rhythm of a tiny fetal heartbeat filled the air through the machine's speakers.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
Matteo stood at the edge of the mattress, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his sharp gray eyes fixed on the digital screen. The merciless don, who had executed three cartel commanders at the Calumet docks without blinking, let out a slow, shuddering exhale.
“Report, Doctor,” Matteo commanded softly.
“The baby is resilient, Don Matteo,” Dr. Aris said, adjusting the monitor. “A healthy baby boy. Fetal heart rate is one hundred and forty-five beats per minute. But the mother is suffering from acute exhaustion, early cervical shortening from hours of forced kneeling, and mild dehydration. If she had remained on those cold flagstones another hour, she would have gone into premature labor.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened until the skin over his temples turned chalk-white.
“Can you stabilize her?”
“I’ve started an intravenous drip of magnesium sulfate and lactated Ringer’s,” the doctor assured him, taping the cannula into Elena’s bruised wrist. “She needs absolute bed rest, high-protein nutrition, and zero emotional stress. If she rests, the baby will carry to full term.”
Matteo nodded once. “Thank you, Elena. You will stay on this estate until my nephew is born. Name your fee.”
“Your protection is fee enough, Don Matteo,” the doctor replied with a respectful nod, stepping into the adjoining room to prepare the medications.
Matteo pulled a leather armchair over to the bed, sitting down beside Elena. He took her free hand into his large, warm palm, his calloused thumb gently tracing the blue veins beneath her pale skin.
“You’ve been carrying twenty-four hours of fear, little sister,” Matteo murmured, his voice rich and deep.
Elena turned her head on the soft pillow, tears leaking from the corners of her hazel eyes.
“I didn't know who I was, Matteo,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “My foster mother made me swear on her deathbed never to unpick the lining of my sleeve until I was in safe hands. She told me that if the Vance family knew Donna Isabella had a surviving daughter, they would send hitmen to South Chicago.”
“Beatrice was right,” Matteo said, his eyes darkening to slate. “Arthur Vance didn't just want my mother dead twenty years ago. He wanted the Rossi estate liquidated so his pharmaceutical empire could seize our river terminals.”
He looked at the fraying gray maid’s uniform she wore.
“The loan sharks in Gary who were hunting you... how much did they demand?”
“Forty thousand dollars,” Elena breathed. “For my ex-husband’s gambling debts. They told me that if I didn't pay by Friday, they would take my baby and sell him across the border.”
Matteo pulled out his phone, keying a four-digit extension.
“Marco.”
“Boss.”
“Take six soldiers down to the 5th Avenue garage in Gary. Locate the men holding markers on Elena Ward. Liquidate their operation. Burn their ledgers. If anyone in Indiana ever speaks her name again, level the entire district.”
He hung up without waiting for a response.
He looked back down at Elena, his expression softening into an unyielding, absolute sanctuary.
May you like
“Your debt is paid in lead, Maria. You are a Rossi. And in this city, nobody touches our blood.”
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