Chapter 3 - The Surgeon's Verdict and the Shadow in the Hallway
The double doors of Operating Room Two swung open with a pneumatic hiss, and Dr. Mercer walked out into the semi-private waiting alcove, stripping off his blood-spattered blue surgical gloves. He looked exhausted, his hair damp with sweat under his surgical cap, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes.
Renzo Caruso was on his feet instantly, discarding a half-empty cup of hospital coffee. Two of the other enforcers stepped out of the shadows, their hands instinctively dropping toward their concealed holsters before they caught themselves.
“Talk to me, Doctor,” Renzo demanded, his voice tight. “Is he alive?”
Dr. Mercer let out a long, shuddering breath and rubbed the back of his neck.
“He’s alive,” Dr. Mercer said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “By every law of medicine and biology, Mr. Marchetti should have bled out before his car even hit the city limits. The bullet tore through his left flank, missed the descending aorta by less than half an inch, and shredded a branch of his renal artery. If the nurse hadn't packed the wound with absolute precision and kept his pressure stable during the transfer... we would be planning a funeral right now.”
Renzo closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting out the breath he felt like he’d been holding for forty-five minutes. He nodded slowly.
“And the nurse?” Renzo asked.
“Delphine?” Dr. Mercer offered a tired, respectful smile. “She’s the best trauma nurse on the night shift. Has been for years. She assisted me through the entire vascular repair. She didn't flinch once, even when the pressure dropped to sixty over thirty on the table. You owe her your boss’s life.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s finishing the charting in the nurses' station on the fourth floor. Recovery suite. We’ve moved Mr. Marchetti into the private VIP wing under heavy sedation. No visitors for at least twelve hours.”
Renzo nodded, turning to the enforcer standing closest to him. “Vinnie, post two men outside his recovery door. Nobody gets in—no doctors, no janitors, no hospital board members—unless I clear them first. Understand?”
“Got it, Renzo,” the man replied, turning on his heel.
Renzo walked down the quiet hallway, his heavy shoes echoing against the polished linoleum. But as he turned the corner toward the fourth-floor nurses' station, he caught sight of someone lurking near the vending machines.
It was Marco Vieri.
Marco was leaning against the wall, illuminated by the flickering fluorescent light of a soda machine, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. He was speaking in a furious, hurried whisper.
“...No, you idiot, the shot didn't finish him! The doctors patched him up... I don't know how, some fat nurse miraculously kept him alive... Listen to me, if he wakes up and finds out about the logistics leak, we’re all dead men... We have to finish it before he talks...”
Renzo froze in the shadows of the corridor. Every muscle in his body went rigid. A cold, lethal fury surged through his veins, hotter and more violent than any anger he had felt in years.
He didn't rush Marco. Instead, he stepped out of the darkness with terrifying silence, his footsteps completely masked by the hum of the vending machine.
“Who are you talking to, Marco?” Renzo asked softly.
Marco jumped violently, dropping his phone onto the linoleum with a clatter. His face drained of all color, his eyes widening in stark terror as he looked up at Renzo’s towering frame.
“R-Renzo!” Marco stammered, scrambling to pick up the phone while his hands shook uncontrollably. “I was just... I was calling my girlfriend, letting her know I’m going to be late——”
Renzo’s hand shot out like a striking viper, grabbing Marco by the throat and slamming him so hard against the vending machine that the glass front cracked. Soda cans rattled inside the metal columns.
“You were talking to someone about finishing the job,” Renzo whispered, his face inches from Marco’s, his eyes burning with absolute murderous intent. “You were talking about the logistics leak. Which means you knew the ambush was coming. You set him up, didn't you?”
“No! I swear to God, Renzo! You’ve got it all wrong—!” Marco choked out, clawing at Renzo’s wrist, his feet dangling slightly off the floor.
“If I find out you had anything to do with the bullet in Salvatore’s body,” Renzo promised, his voice dropping to a horrifying, icy register, “a bullet will feel like a mercy compared to what I do to you.”
Renzo shoved Marco away, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and expensive fabric.
“Get out of this hospital,” Renzo snarled, pointing down the hallway toward the exit. “If I see your face anywhere near the fourth floor again, I’ll feed you to the fishes in Lake Michigan myself. Now run.”
May you like
Marco scrambled to his feet, clutching his throat, and bolted down the corridor without looking back.
Renzo stood alone in the dim hallway, watching him disappear. The internal betrayal was real. The leak was inside their own house. And Salvatore Marchetti was about to wake up in a hospital bed surrounded by enemies he hadn't even known he had.
