Chapter 4 - The Debt of Blood
By eight o'clock that evening, the emergency trauma surgery had concluded.
Cynthia had been transferred from Trauma One to the Intensive Care Unit on the fifth floor. The bullet in her shoulder had missed the subclavian artery by less than three millimeters. The second bullet had torn through her abdominal wall, requiring a partial resection of her small intestine.
The third bullet—the one that had struck her lower lumbar spine—had caused the most damage. It had fractured the L4 vertebra and produced a massive epidural hematoma that was currently putting severe pressure on her spinal cord.
She was now resting in Room 502—a private VIP suite that Carter had cleared out by having his men relocate three other patients to different wings.
The hospital was under total lockdown.
Dozens of heavy-set men in sharp charcoal suits stood guard at every elevator, every stairwell, and every entrance to the fifth floor. Hospital administrators, city council members, and the Chief of Police had tried to intervene, but a single phone call from Carter’s legal team had silenced all opposition.
Inside Room 502, the only sounds were the soft, rhythmic pumping of the ventilator, the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, and the light tapping of cold rain against the reinforced glass window.
Carter sat in a heavy leather armchair right beside Cynthia’s bed.
He had finally removed his blood-soaked suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to his elbows. His forearms were thick, corded with muscle, and covered in dark, old tattoos. His face was pale with exhaustion, dark stubble covering his jaw, but his eyes were bright, fierce, and entirely focused on the sleeping woman.
The door clicked open softly.
Marcus stepped into the room, carrying a thick black leather folder. He looked at Carter, taking in the sight of his powerful boss sitting vigil beside a hospital nurse. In ten years of service, Marcus had never seen Carter Moretti look at any human being the way he was looking at Cynthia Quinn.
"Boss," Marcus said quietly, keeping his voice down. "We found the boy."
Carter didn't take his eyes off Cynthia's face. "Where was he?"
"At the community dialysis clinic on 4th Street," Marcus reported, opening the folder. "His name is Ethan Quinn. Sixteen years old. End-stage renal failure. He was waiting on the curb for his sister to pick him up. He didn't know she had been shot until we brought him here."
Carter’s jaw tightened. "Where is he now?"
"In the private family room down the hall," Marcus replied. "He's terrified, boss. He thinks he's going to lose her. And... I checked their financial records as requested."
Marcus handed a piece of paper to Carter.
Carter took the paper, his eyes scanning the numbers.
Total medical debt: $61,300.00. Monthly income: $3,200.00. Rent arrears: 2 months. Notice of pending insurance cancellation: Issued four days ago.
Carter’s hand clenched around the paper, crushing it into a tight ball within his fist. A dark, terrifying rage surged through his veins—not directed at his rival mafia families, but at the absolute cruelty of a system that had driven this selfless, noble woman to the edge of exhaustion while people like Vance mocked her for her weight and uniform.
"Transfer three hundred thousand dollars into the hospital's primary account immediately," Carter ordered, his voice dropping into an icy register. "Clear every single cent of their medical debt. Pay their rent for the next five years. And get the head of the transplant board on the phone right now."
Marcus blinked, stunned by the sheer scale of the order. "Boss... three hundred thousand?"
"If I hear anyone mention her debt again," Carter said, slowly turning his head to glare at Marcus, "I will burn down the bank that holds it. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir. Right away," Marcus said, inclining his head respectfully before turning to leave.
"Wait," Carter commanded.
Marcus stopped. "Sir?"
"Dr. Vance," Carter said softly, his eyes returning to Cynthia’s face. "Where is he?"
"He’s in his office on the third floor, boss. Trying to answer calls from the press."
"Bring him up here," Carter said. "I want to have a private conversation with the Chief of Cardiology."
Five minutes later, the door to Room 502 opened again.
Marcus shoved Dr. Preston Vance into the room. Vance was trembling violently, his expensive silk tie askew, his face devoid of all color as he took in the dark, silent atmosphere of the ICU suite and the towering mafia boss sitting beside the bed.
"Mr... Mr. Moretti," Vance swallowed hard, clutching a medical chart to his chest like a shield. "I... I was just reviewing Nurse Quinn's post-operative orders—"
Carter stood up from his chair.
He didn't rush. He took slow, deliberate strides across the carpet, his tall, imposing figure casting a long, terrifying shadow over the physician.
Vance backed up until his spine hit the solid wood of the closed door.
Carter stopped just inches away from Vance’s face. The smell of cold tobacco, blood, and iron radiated off him.
"This morning," Carter said, his voice quiet, gravelly, and laced with absolute lethogy, "you stood in the hallway outside room four, and you insulted this woman."
Vance’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated panic. "I... I was just... professional feedback—"
"You made fun of her size," Carter cut in, his dark eyes narrowing into two icy slits. "You made fun of her uniform. You made her lower her head and apologize for a mistake your own broken software caused."
"I... I didn't know—"
Carter reached out, his long, scarred fingers closing firmly around the lapels of Vance’s pristine white coat. He didn't lift him off the ground, but the crushing pressure was enough to make Vance’s knees buckle.
"This woman," Carter whispered, leaning close enough that his breath touched Vance’s ear, "took three high-velocity steel rounds to save my life today. She stood in front of automatic weapons without flinching, while you hid behind a reception desk crying like a child."
Vance let out a pathetic, whimpering sound, tears of terror leaking from his eyes. "Please... Mr. Moretti... please don't kill me..."
"I'm not going to kill you, Vance," Carter said smoothly, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Killing you would be merciful. Instead, you are going to personally oversee her recovery. You are going to ensure she has the best room, the best care, and the best physical therapy in this country."
He leaned in closer, his grip tightening until the fabric of Vance’s coat began to tear.
"And if she feels even a single moment of pain because of your negligence," Carter added, "I will ensure you spend the rest of your life practicing medicine in a high-security prison block. Do we understand each other?"
"Y-yes! Yes, Mr. Moretti! I understand! I swear!" Vance gasped, sobbing uncontrollably.
Carter let go of his coat, letting the doctor slide down the door onto his hands and knees.
"Get out of my sight," Carter commanded flatly.
Vance scrambled to his feet, pulled the door open, and fled down the corridor as if the devil himself were chasing him.
May you like
Carter turned back to the bed. He walked over, sitting down beside Cynthia once again, taking her small, cool hand into his broad, scarred palm. He brought her hand up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against her bandaged knuckles.
"Rest, Nurse Quinn," Carter whispered softly into the quiet room. "I am right here."
