Chapter 3 - The Incision
The surgery lasted six agonizing hours.
At 4:15 in the morning, the harsh fluorescent lights of the surgical wing seemed to dim as Dr. Aris—the lead cardiologist, not the corrupt fertility doctor—walked slowly through the double doors. He pulled off his surgical cap, running a hand through his exhausted, sweat-dampened hair.
I stood up, my legs feeling like lead. Margaret gripped my arm.
“She’s stabilized,” the cardiologist said, letting out a long, heavy breath. “We managed to repair the cardiac tear and stop the hemorrhaging. She is in a medically induced coma to allow her heart to rest, and the next forty-eight hours are critical. But she is alive, Mr. Moretti. She fought like hell.”
I couldn't speak. I simply nodded, the crushing, suffocating weight lifting from my chest just enough to allow oxygen back into my lungs.
“Can I see him?” I whispered.
The doctor nodded, gesturing down the hall. “The NICU is this way.”
I walked into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. The room was warm, dark, and filled with the quiet, rhythmic beeping of monitors. A nurse led me to a clear plastic incubator in the corner.
I looked down.
He was tiny. He was hooked up to a terrifying array of tubes and wires, his small chest rising and falling rapidly. But he had a shock of dark hair, and as I reached my trembling hand through the porthole, his microscopic fingers blindly grasped my index finger. His grip was shockingly strong.
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He was a Moretti.
“I’m here,” I whispered, tears finally breaking through the hardened, ruthless exterior I had worn for a decade, spilling down my face and splashing onto the sterile plastic of the incubator. “I’m right here, little one. And I swear on my life, nobody is ever going to hurt you or your mother ever again.”
