Chapter 4 - The Eight-Digit Ghost
The private waiting room on the fourth floor of the pediatric hematology wing felt less like a hospital and more like an executive holding cell. The floor was carpeted in plush navy wool; the leather sofas were deep and pristine. Outside the frosted glass doors, four armed men in charcoal suits stood sentry, turning away everyone who didn't possess an MD or a direct order from Dominic.
Noah and Lucas had fallen asleep on one of the sofas, their small bodies tangled together beneath a fleece blanket Dr. Chen had provided. They looked so impossibly small against the dark leather.
Dominic sat across from them, his tuxedo jacket discarded, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms. A white cotton ball taped to the crook of his right arm marked the extraction of nearly half a pint of blood for immediate genetic sequencing. In his left hand, he held the black bank card I had thrown onto the altar table two hours ago.
"The account was created on November fourteenth, three years ago," Dominic said. His voice was dangerously calm. He had an iPad balanced on his knee, the screen glowing with financial records his forensic accountants had pulled within twenty minutes of a single phone call. "Cayman National Trust. Account number ending in four-zero-two. One single deposit of eighty million dollars."
I leaned back in the armchair, my head resting against the cold wall. My body felt hollowed out, as if every ounce of marrow had been scooped from my bones. "I know the account number. I memorized it so I would never accidentally look at the card again."
"It was transferred from the Russo Foundation's offshore reserve," Dominic continued, his eyes tracking lines of data. "Authorized by Victor Russo. The memo line was left blank." He looked up at me, his gaze searing. "You walked out of my life while I was in Chicago dealing with a warehouse union strike. I came home to an empty house. Your closet was bare. Your wedding ring was on the kitchen counter next to a note that said, *'Do not look for me.'* Do you know what I did?"
"You probably had a drink and called your father," I whispered bitterly.
Dominic stood up so fast the iPad clattered to the carpet. He crossed the room in two strides, looming over me, his hands resting on the arms of my chair, caging me in. The scent of him—smoke, rain, and pure, concentrated adrenaline—overwhelmed my senses.
"I tore this city apart," he snarled, his face inches from mine. "I put three men in the hospital because I thought the Moretti family had taken you. I spent four million dollars in forty-eight hours tracing every cab, every bus, every flight out of Logan. And do you know what my father did?"
I swallowed, the air catching in my lungs. "He told you I ran."
"He showed me a security still from South Station," Dominic whispered, his voice trembling with a rage so ancient and deep it terrified me. "A woman with your hair boarding an Amtrak train to New York. He told me you had an affair. He told me you took a settlement because you were sick of the life, sick of the guards, sick of waiting for me to be killed. He told me you aborted the child you suspected you were carrying because you didn't want mafia blood in your life!"
The room went completely still, save for the soft, synchronized breathing of our sleeping twins.
I stared at him, my lips parting in pure, unadulterated horror. "He... he told you I had an abortion?"
"Yes," Dominic breathed, his black eyes glistening with unshed tears. "He brought me a medical file from a clinic in Providence. It had your signature. It had the date. It broke me, Maya. It broke whatever piece of me was still human. I buried my mother, and then I buried you, and then I became the monster he always wanted me to be."
"I was in Maine," I choked out, a sob finally tearing through my chest. "I was living in a six-hundred-square-foot cabin with no central heating in Presque Isle! I had morning sickness so violent I couldn't keep water down! Your father’s men showed up the morning you left for Chicago. They sat me down at the kitchen table and played an audio recording of you talking to Victor about the Avery family. About how an alliance with Celeste was the only way to secure the shipping routes. About how I was a 'temporary distraction' from your duty."
Dominic flinched as if I had driven a spike into his chest. "That was a fabrication. A composite. We were recording dummy conversations for the Avery wiretaps—"
"I didn't know that!" I screamed, then instantly lowered my voice to a harsh, shaking whisper as Lucas stirred on the couch. "I was twenty-four, Dominic! I was an orphan! I had no family, no money, and three babies growing inside me! Victor slid that card across the table and told me that if I wasn't across state lines by sunset, my children would be born in a state ward and I would be found in the Charles River. He said you had already approved it. He said the wedding to Celeste was already being planned!"
Dominic closed his eyes. His knuckles turned pure white as he gripped the arms of my chair. When he opened them, the darkness inside was absolute.
"He lied to both of us," Dominic said, each word dropping like a lead weight. "He used my love for you to turn me into a weapon, and he used your fear to drive you into the dark."
The door to the waiting room clicked open.
Dr. Chen walked in, her face pale, holding a digital tablet. She glanced between the two of us, noting the suffocating tension, but her professional composure didn't crack.
"We have the initial panel," she said.
Dominic pushed back from my chair instantly, stepping between me and the doctor like a shield. "Tell me."
"It is familial hemophagocytic lymphohistiocytosis," Dr. Chen said quietly. "Type two. It’s caused by a mutation in the PRF1 gene, which encodes perforin. Without functional perforin, his cytotoxic T cells and natural killer cells can't destroy infected or abnormal cells. His immune system is essentially devouring his own blood cells."
"Can you fix it?" Dominic demanded. "Can we cure him?"
"We can stabilize him with high-dose dexamethasone and chemo-immunotherapy," she replied. "We've already started the steroid protocol. But to survive long-term, Samuel needs an allogeneic hematopoietic stem cell transplant. A bone marrow transplant."
"Take mine," Dominic said without a second of hesitation. "Take whatever marrow you need."
"You are only a fifty-percent haploidentical match," Dr. Chen said gently. "As is Maya. In cases like this, a full match is critical to avoid fatal graft-versus-host disease." She paused, her eyes drifting toward the sofa where Lucas and Noah lay sleeping. "The twins. They are his best chance. We need to test Noah and Lucas immediately."
I felt my heart drop into an abyss. "Test them? If they have the same gene..."
"If they have the mutation, they may also manifest the disease eventually," Dr. Chen said honestly. "Or they may be asymptomatic carriers. But if one of them is a full, healthy human leukocyte antigen match... he can save his brother’s life."
Dominic turned toward our sons. His expression was no longer that of a syndicate don, nor a betrayed husband. It was the face of a man looking at the miracle and the curse of his own bloodline, hanging by a thread.
"Test them," Dominic whispered. "And Dr. Chen?"
"Yes, Dominic?"
May you like
"If my father’s name appears anywhere near this floor, or if any of his associates come within fifty yards of this wing... shoot them. I will personally take the legal fallout."
***
