Chapter 5 - The Private Suite
The private elevator of Moretti Tower descended into the subterranean medical suite with a silent, frictionless hum.
It wasn't an ordinary underground parking garage. Behind three-inch-thick steel security doors lay a fully equipped, state-of-the-art trauma and stabilization wing—a private medical fortress that Dante Moretti maintained for his own security and the confidential care of his inner circle.
The automatic doors slid open. Two trauma nurses and Dr. Aaron Vance, a graying, elite cardiologist who lived on retainer for Moretti, were already waiting by the gurney.
“V-tach, pulse thready at one-forty,” Dante barked, gently depositing Margaret onto the examining table with practiced care. “She crashed at the Belmont Grand about twelve minutes ago. Establish IV access, push five milligrams of metoprolol, and prep the transcutaneous pacer.”
Dr. Vance didn't ask questions. He didn't look at Dante with surprise. He moved with the crisp, robotic efficiency of a military surgeon.
Elena stood frozen near the trauma bay doors, her hands trembling. Her burgundy dress was stained with dust from the ballroom floor. For the past fourteen months, she had been Margaret’s primary private nurse, administering her daily medications, monitoring her vitals, and listening to the old woman’s endless, rambling stories about the history of Boston shipping. She had known Margaret was sick, but she had never seen the matriarch fall this hard, this fast.
“Nurse Marlow,” Dr. Vance called out sharply, looking over his shoulder. “Are you going to stand there shaking, or are you going to scrub in and assist with the telemetry?”
Elena blinked hard, shaking off the paralysis. She straightened her spine, took a deep breath, and stepped forward. “Telemetry lead two is dropping. Let me adjust the chest electrodes.”
For the next twenty agonizing minutes, the trauma bay was a symphony of flashing monitors, hissed oxygen valves, and sharp, clinical commands. Dante stood in the corner of the room, his massive frame half-shadowed by the medical equipment, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes never leaving Margaret’s pale face.
Slowly, agonizingly, the jagged green spikes on the heart monitor smoothed out into a steady, rhythmic cadence.
Dr. Vance let out a long breath, wiping sweat from his forehead with a sterile gauze pad. “She’s stabilized. Sinus rhythm restored. But her kidneys are failing, Dante. We bought her some time tonight, but she needs continuous renal support, and her heart isn't going to endure another shock like this.”
Dante nodded slowly. He turned his gaze away from the bed and looked directly at Elena, who was carefully pulling a thermal blanket over Margaret’s shoulders.
“You saved her life in that ballroom,” Dante said, his voice low and resonant in the quiet room. “If you hadn't recognized the arrhythmia immediately, she would have arrested before we reached the elevator.”
“I’m her nurse,” Elena said quietly, her hands still resting on the edge of the metal gurney. “It’s my job.”
“Most nurses in that room would have panicked,” Dante replied, stepping closer. “You didn't. Why were you working private duty for an eccentric old woman when you clearly have the clinical nerve to run an ICU ward?”
Elena looked down, a bitter smile touching her lips. “ICU nurses need certifications, specialized residencies, and tuition money I haven't had since my mother got sick three years ago. Private duty pays the rent. Sometimes.”
Dante didn't answer right away. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the folded piece of parchment Margaret had pressed into Elena’s hand during the collapse.
May you like
“You haven't looked at what she gave you,” Dante noted, holding it out between two fingers.
Elena’s heart skipped a beat. She remembered seeing Dante’s name written across the top of the document. She reached out, took the paper, and carefully unfolded it under the harsh fluorescent lights of the trauma bay.
