Chapter 7 - The Scalpel and the Sinner
The sterile white hallways of St. Jude’s Private Pavilion smelled of antiseptic, iodine, and impending mortality.
Julian’s gurney was wheeled rapidly toward Operating Room Four, where the red surgical sign was already illuminated.
Dr. Bennett, a renowned pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon with silver hair and steel-rimmed glasses, walked briskly alongside the stretcher.
“His ventricular septum is deteriorating rapidly under the stress of pulmonary pressure,” Dr. Bennett reported as he examined the digital scans.
“We have to open the chest cavity immediately and install the Dacron patch before complete heart failure occurs.”
Gabriel shoved the paramedics away, forcing himself off his own stretcher despite the river of blood soaking through his temporary pressure bandages.
“Save him, Bennett,” Gabriel snarled, gripping the surgeon’s collar with his good right hand.
The surgical staff gasped in shock at the sight of the towering, wounded don threatening the chief of surgery.
Dr. Bennett didn’t flinch, meeting Gabriel’s wild eyes with the steady calm of a man who held life and death in his hands every day.
“I will do everything humanly possible, Mr. Cross,” Dr. Bennett said calmly.
“Now release me so I can wash my hands, or you will be the cause of your own son’s demise.”
Gabriel slowly uncurled his trembling fingers, releasing the doctor’s collar with a ragged breath.
The double doors of Operating Room Four swung shut, cutting Julian off from our sight.
The harsh mechanical lock clicked, sealing my little boy inside a room where steel knives would cut into his tiny chest.
I collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the polished linoleum floor as the reality of the night finally crushed my resolve.
My hands were shaking uncontrollably, stained with the mingled blood of my ex-husband and the child I had fought to keep alive for five years.
Leo and Mateo knelt on the floor beside me, burying their faces in my lap, their silent tears soaking through my ruined cotton skirt.
Gabriel stood above us, swaying slightly on his feet as blood pooled beneath his left sleeve and dripped steadily onto the floor.
“Boss,” Dr. Samuel Evans pleaded from behind him, holding an open suture tray.
“Your subclavian artery could be compromised.”
“You need to be in Operating Room Two right now or you will lose consciousness from internal hemorrhaging.”
“Patch me up here,” Gabriel commanded without turning around.
“I am not leaving this corridor while my son is under the knife.”
“Gabriel, that is madness!” Dr. Evans argued, panic rising in his voice.
“You have a high-caliber round lodged near your scapula!”
“I said patch me up here!” Gabriel roared, the sound echoing through the empty hospital wing like a gunshot.
Dr. Evans swallowed his objections, realizing that trying to move Gabriel Cross against his will was an impossible task.
The medical team set up a sterile field right there in the waiting lounge, rolling over a surgical cart and bright halogen examination lamps.
Gabriel sat on a rigid metal chair ten feet away from where I huddled with the boys.
He refused general anesthesia, permitting Dr. Evans only a minimal local injection of lidocaine around the bullet wound.
I watched through blurry eyes as the doctor used stainless steel forceps to probe inside Gabriel’s shoulder.
Gabriel didn’t scream.
He didn’t even groan.
He gripped the arms of the metal chair until the tubular steel bent under the pressure of his fingers.
His gray-green eyes remained fixed squarely on the small circular observation window of Julian’s operating room down the hall.
Every time the doctor clamped a bleeder or pulled back torn muscle tissue, Gabriel’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth would crack.
Leo slowly lifted his head from my lap, watching the gruesome procedure with wide, fascinated eyes.
The boy detached himself from my arms and walked slowly across the corridor, stopping two feet in front of his father’s chair.
Gabriel looked down, the harsh, animalistic snarl on his face instantly softening into something profoundly tender.
“Does it hurt?” Leo asked in his small, serious voice.
Gabriel took a slow, agonizing breath as Dr. Evans pulled the distorted lead bullet from the wound with a sharp metallic clink.
“Not as much as knowing you spent five years without a father, Leo,” Gabriel whispered honestly.
Leo tilted his head, his gaze wandering over the deep, jagged scars that marked Gabriel’s exposed chest and arms.
“Why do you have so many marks on your skin?” the boy asked.
“Because I made bad choices,” Gabriel replied, his voice heavy with quiet shame.
“I fought in wars I shouldn't have fought, and I trusted people who didn't deserve my loyalty.”
“Mommy says scars are just maps of where you got hurt and survived,” Leo said simply.
Gabriel’s chest hitched, a raw sob catching in his throat as he looked at the child who possessed his exact soul.
“Your mother is a very wise woman,” Gabriel said, wiping a bead of cold sweat from his brow.
“Wisier than I ever was.”
Suddenly, the harsh red emergency alarm over Operating Room Four began flashing with blinding intensity.
A loud, rhythmic screech sounded from the internal monitors, audible even through the soundproof walls.
The double doors burst open, and a surgical nurse ran out toward the blood bank station, shouting frantically.
“We have acute cardiac arrest on the table!” she yelled.
“Ventricular fibrillation! Charge the pediatric paddles to twenty joules!”
The world stopped spinning.
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I sprang to my feet, screaming Julian’s name as my heart felt like it was being ripped out of my ribcage.
Gabriel tore the surgical drapes away from his half-sutured shoulder, shoving Dr. Evans aside and staggering toward the operating room doors like a wounded beast refusing to die.
