Chapter 7 - Blood on the White Linens of St. Jude’s
The distinctive, muffled thud of a silenced gunshot echoed down the polished tile hallway of St. Jude’s private medical wing, followed immediately by the shattering of glass.
Lily stirred in her sleep under the cashmere blanket, letting out a soft, distressed murmur before burying her face deeper into the plush armchair.
Carmine moved swiftly toward the suite entrance, sliding the heavy deadbolt into place and drawing his firearm with practiced, lethal efficiency.
“Boss, we’re trapped in a fishbowl,” Carmine warned in a harsh whisper, his eyes darting toward the large floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Twenty stories up, single point of entry at the door, and the service elevator opens right into the utility corridor.”
Dante pulled his own 9mm automatic from his shoulder holster, checking the magazine with a mechanical click before sliding it home.
“They aren't here to negotiate, and they aren't here to capture us,” Dante said, his gaze fixed on the reinforced wooden door as the heavy wood began to splinter under the impact of a breaching ram.
“They want the girl, they want the municipal records, and they want the Moretti name erased from Chicago.”
Salvatore slowly stood up, backing away toward the corner of the room near the intravenous drip stand where Arthur Carter lay sleeping peacefully.
“You brought this war to our doorstep, Dante, over a worthless shoeshine box,” Salvatore muttered, his face twisted in bitter resentment.
“That worthless shoeshine box has more integrity than your entire bloodline, Uncle,” Dante replied without looking back.
The door exploded inward in a cloud of splinters, dust, and flying brass shrapnel as three masked enforcers in tactical gear poured into the suite.
Carmine fired first, his weapon barking twice in the confined space; the lead enforcer dropped instantly, clutching his chest as he crashed onto the white linoleum floor.
Return fire chewed through the expensive mahogany cabinets, sending porcelain shards and medical supplies raining down across the room.
“Cover the bed! Protect the child!” Dante roared, lunging sideways behind a heavy medical partition while unloading three rapid shots through the fabric divider.
One of the remaining enforcers cried out, stumbling backward into the hallway, but the third managed to sweep around the flank with a submachine gun raised.
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Before the enforcer could pull the trigger, a fragile, skeletal hand reached out from the hospital bed.
Arthur Carter, half-delirious and tearing the oxygen tubes from his nose, suddenly grabbed the heavy iron base of the IV pole and swung it with the last remaining strength in his frail body.
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