Chapter 2 - The Darkness in TraumaThe emergency backup generators groaned to life four seconds later, casting the hallway in a dull, red-tinted emergency glow.
The low, distant thud of suppressed gunfire echoed from two floors below—the sound of Moretti's hit squad breaching the lower service entrances.
Inside the donor room, Nurse Hannah let out a terrified gasp, dropping to her knees beside the chair.
"Stay down," I ordered calmly.
I didn't wait for the technician to remove the IV line cleanly. I reached down, pulled the adhesive tape off my skin, and pulled the steel needle directly out of my vein. A bead of dark blood welled on my inner arm, but I ignored it, pressing my thumb flat against the puncture wound as I stood up.
The second blood bag was nearly full—rich, warm, and shining under the red emergency lights.
I grabbed the heavy glass IV pole, unhooked the sealed bag of AB-negative blood, and handed it directly to Hannah.
"Take this into the operating room," I commanded, my baritone cutting through the blaring hospital alarms. "Tell the surgeon that if he stops operating on that girl for even one second, I will personally ensure he never holds a scalpel again."
Hannah took the blood bag into her trembling hands, looking up at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. "What about you, Mr. Mancini?"
"I'm going to make sure no one opens that operating room door," I said softly.
I reached beneath my discarded cashmere overcoat hanging on the wall chair and pulled out my primary weapon—a sleek, custom SIG Sauer P226 with an integrated suppressor.
Through the red-lit hallway outside, footsteps approached rapidly. Heavy, deliberate combat boots crunching against shattered glass from a blown-out window near the stairwell.
I stepped out of the donor bay, my long frame cutting a dark, imposing shadow against the red emergency lights.
Three men in dark tactical jackets stepped out of the stairwell corridor, holding automatic submachine guns. The leader—a scarred, middle-aged Moretti enforcer named Dominic—stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing alone in the hallway, holding a single blood-stained paper towel against my forearm and a pistol in my right hand.
"Luca Mancini," Dominic sneered, a cruel, yellow-toothed grin spreading across his face. "You look a little pale, Boss. The nurses drain too much out of you?"
"Dominic," I greeted smoothly, not a single muscle in my body trembling. "You brought three men onto a pediatric surgery floor. Your father would have been ashamed of your lack of elegance."
Dominic's grin vanished. "Victor doesn't care about elegance anymore, Luca. He cares about results. Hand over the girl, and we'll let you die quickly in the basement."
"The girl is my daughter," I whispered, my voice dropping into a register so dark and terrifying that even the red emergency lights seemed to dim around us.
Before Dominic could process the sentence or raise his weapon, I fired three rounds in rapid succession.
THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
The suppressed shots rang out like sharp snaps of a whip.
The two enforcers beside Dominic collapsed backward onto the linoleum floor before they could press their triggers. Dominic let out a strangled gasp as my third round shattered his right knee, dropping him to his hands and knees in a pool of his own blood.
I walked over slowly, my heavy leather shoes stepping cleanly over the fallen weapons, stopping right beside Dominic's trembling head.
I picked up his radio from his tactical vest, holding it to my ear.
"Victor," I spoke smoothly into the transmitter.
A moment of static echoed, followed by the deep, raspy voice of Victor Moretti—the head of the rival syndicate.
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"Luca...?" Victor rasped over the speaker. "Is that you? Did my boys find your little secret?"
"Your boys are dead in the third-floor hallway, Victor," I said cleanly, looking down at Dominic, who was weeping silently on the floor. "And I'm coming down to the parking garage to return your radio."
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