Chapter 5 - The Medical Center
Dr. Robert Vance did not look like a man who took orders from mob bosses, but when we arrived at Ochsner Medical Center the next morning, the entire fifth floor seemed to bend around his presence.
My mother sat in a private corner suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the oak trees of Audubon Park. An advanced, silent oxygen filtration system sat beside her bed, whisper-quiet compared to the rattling yellow machine in our apartment.
Dr. Vance—a silver-haired man with kind eyes and thirty years of pulmonary expertise—spent two hours reviewing Martha’s medical history, performing high-resolution scans that our city hospital had claimed were “unnecessary under basic insurance coverage.”
I stood in the corridor outside the private room, watching through the glass as two nurses gently adjusted my mother’s monitors.
“She’s remarkably stable given her level of tissue damage,” Dr. Vance said, stepping out into the hall and pulling off his thin rubber gloves. “The previous therapy was outdated by five years, Miss Davis. We’re switching her to a new anti-fibrotic medication today. It won't cure her, but it will stop the progression. She’ll be able to breathe comfortably without the heavy tanks within a month.”
Tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them. I pressed my hand against my mouth, taking a ragged breath. “How much... how much is this going to cost?”
Dr. Vance smiled gently, tapping his digital tablet. “The treatment is covered under the Romano Foundation’s chronic care grant. There is no bill, Miss Davis. Not for the scans, not for the medication, and not for the home delivery of the new equipment.”
I leaned back against the cool hospital wall, letting out a breath I felt like I had been holding for two straight years.
As Dr. Vance walked down the corridor, a tall shadow fell across the polished tile floor.
Alessandro Romano stood at the end of the hallway, wearing a dark navy coat, holding two paper cups of coffee from the hospital cafeteria.
He walked over slowly, holding one cup out to me.
“It’s not from Rosie’s,” Alessandro said, his gravelly voice remarkably soft in the quiet hospital wing. “And I promise not to throw it against the wall.”
I looked at the paper cup, then up into his dark, searching eyes.
I took the coffee. “Why are you doing this, Alessandro?”
He looked through the glass window at my mother, who was currently laughing at something a nurse had said.
“My father died of lung cancer fifteen years ago,” Alessandro said quietly, his eyes distant. “In a public ward in Naples. We didn't have money then. We didn't have connections. I spent six months watching him struggle for air while doctors stepped around his bed to care for people whose families had prominent names.”
He turned his head, looking down at me. “When I walked into Rosie’s two nights ago, I was on the phone with a man who had lied to me about an oil shipment. I was furious. I threw that cup because I thought I was the most powerful man in the room.”
Alessandro took a slow sip of his coffee. “Then you looked at me with blood in your eyes over a three-dollar piece of ceramic, and I realized I was just an arrogant idiot making noise in a small room.”
I let out a tiny, breathless laugh, looking down at my coffee. “You were pretty terrifying.”
“You didn't flinch,” he noted softly. “Not once.”
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“I was too tired to flinch,” I admitted, meeting his eyes. “When you’re drowning, you don't care if the storm looks scary. You’re already in the water.”
Alessandro stepped an inch closer, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a steady, fierce warmth that made my chest tighten. “Then let me give you a raft, Clara.”
