9:00 AM. OR 3. Manhattan General. Surgery.
“Scalpel.”
Dante was under. Finally. After 11 days of refusing. After standing at Pier 54. After shooting KAT. After collapsing on me. On her.
“BP 80/50,” anesthesiologist said. “He’s unstable.”
“Then stabilize him,” I said.
I was in scrubs. Mask. Hat. Illegal. I didn’t care.
Dr. Harris looked at me. At my stomach. 7 weeks, 2 days. Doppler on, hidden under scrubs. 168 BPM. Elena. Listening.
“Mrs. Moretti, you can’t be in here,” he said. “The stress”
“Cut him open,” I said. “Or I will.”
Vincent stood by the door. Gun hidden. 10 Yakuza outside. 10 Moretti outside.
Kieran was in Recovery. Room 402. Shoulder surgery went fine. 18. Dante’s son. Elena’s brother.
He was awake. Asking for Dante.
Dr. Harris sighed. “Fine. But if you faint,
