Chapter 7 - The Fragile Glass
At 8:00 a.m., the sun finally broke through the gray morning clouds, casting pale, golden streaks of light through the high arching windows of St. Jude’s Private Hospital.
The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit was quiet except for the rhythmic, mechanical clicks of air pumps and the soft, continuous hum of heart monitors.
Roman stood in a private isolation room on the fourth floor. He had scrubbed his hands, removed his jacket, and put on a sterile yellow gown over his white dress shirt.
In front of him were two glass incubators.
Inside the left one lay a boy—small, red-skinned, his chest rising and falling rapidly under a tiny plastic oxygen mask. His wrist was no thicker than Roman’s thumb, encircled by a soft white identification band that read: Baby Boy D'Angelo A.
In the right incubator lay a girl. She was slightly smaller, her tiny fingers curled into tight fists against her chest: Baby Girl D'Angelo B.
The lead neonatologist, a middle-aged woman named Dr. Aris, stood on the other side of the incubators, adjusting a digital monitor.
"Their lung development was severely compromised by the sudden onset of labor," Dr. Aris said softy, keeping her voice low so as not to startle the infants. "The micro-dosing of those agents caused extreme stress in the womb. But they are fighters, Mr. D’Angelo. Their vitals have stabilized over the last six hours."
Roman stared at the tiny infants.
In his world, power was measured in territory, firearms, bodyguards, and millions of dollars moved through offshore channels. Looking at these two microscopic human beings, who weighed less than two pounds each, he felt an agonizing, overwhelming sense of helplessness.
A single touch from a violent hand could end them. A mechanical failure could extinguish their light in minutes.
"Can I... hold them?" Roman asked. His voice was rough, unpracticed in asking for permission.
"Not today," Dr. Aris said gently. "Their skin is too fragile for direct contact right now. But you can put your hand through the access port. Let them feel your touch."
Roman slowly approached the girl’s incubator. He opened the round plastic port on the side and slid his right hand inside. His hand—covered in small scars from a dozen old conflicts, a hand that had ordered deaths and signed execution warrants—looked absurdly massive inside the small glass box.
He extended his index finger.
The tiny girl shifted slightly. Her miniature hand moved, her tiny fingers brushing against his skin before wrapping around his fingernail with surprising, fierce strength.
Roman’s chest tightened. A sharp, physical pain gripped his heart—a feeling so intense it almost made him lose his breath.
“Take care of them,” Naomi had whispered in her final seconds.
He understood now. Naomi hadn't died just to expose Sabrina or destroy Marco. She had stayed alive through months of slow torture just to ensure these two tiny creatures had a chance to draw their first breath. She had fought her war so that he could fight his.
"Mr. D’Angelo?" Leo’s voice came quietly from the doorway of the isolation room. He was wearing a sterile gown over his suit, holding a secure satellite phone.
Roman didn't pull his finger away from his daughter’s grip immediately. He waited five long seconds before gently disengaging her tiny hand and pulling his arm out of the incubator.
He walked out into the corridor, closing the heavy glass door behind him.
"What is it?" Roman asked.
"Carmine Moretti received Anthony Russo three hours ago," Leo reported, his face grave. "Carmine didn't take the message well. He realized that with Marco Voss compromised and Sabrina in federal custody, his foothold in our northern harbors is entirely gone."
"What’s his move?"
"He’s mobilizing," Leo said. "He’s pulled sixty men from his Brooklyn crews and moving them toward the border line at Route 9. He thinks because you’re at the hospital, you’re vulnerable. He’s planning a direct strike on the estate tonight to burn your administrative archives."
Roman took off the sterile yellow gown, folded it carefully, and handed it to a nurse passing by. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling them up slightly, his gray eyes locking onto Leo with a lethal, absolute clarity.
"He thinks I’m defending," Roman said.
"Sir?"
"Carmine built his empire by waiting for his enemies to make mistakes," Roman said, walking toward the elevator. "He thinks I’m going to stay in this hospital or hide behind the walls of my estate to protect my children."
He pressed the elevator call button.
"Call the squad," Roman ordered. "All four tactical units. We aren't waiting at Route 9. We are going to Jersey."
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"Jersey?" Leo blinked in surprise. "Carmine’s compound is a fortress, Boss. It’s protected by thirty armed guards and stone walls."
"Naomi gave me the key to his fortress three hours ago," Roman said, stepping into the opening elevator doors. "She didn't just track our capos, Leo. She bought the head of Carmine’s private security detail two years ago."
