Chapter 2 - THE DOCTOR WHO SAID MY EYES WERE NOT DEAD
Marco gave me three names.
Not one.
That mattered.
Six months earlier, if Isabella had told me there was only one doctor in New York worth trusting, I would have accepted it.
Blindness had made me dependent.
Betrayal made me precise.
The first specialist was in Philadelphia.
The second ran a traumatic optic neuropathy program in Boston.
The third was Dr. Maya Levin, chief of neuro-ophthalmic surgery at Columbia Presbyterian.
I chose Levin.
Not because Marco recommended her most strongly.
Because Marco said she had publicly disagreed with Dr. Elliot Vance in two medical journals.
I wanted someone who did not owe him politeness.
By three that afternoon, I was sitting in a private examination room while machines clicked around my head.
Hannah waited outside with Lily.
Isabella was gone.
My security team had driven her to the apartment we had shared and informed her that she could collect personal belongings with an attorney present.
She had cried when I left Central Park.
I remembered hearing her voice behind me.
“Dominic, please don’t do this.”
As if I were the person who had destroyed something.
I had not answered.
Now Dr. Levin moved a light across my useless eyes.
“Do you see anything?”
“No.”
“Light?”
“No.”
“Difference between left and right?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
“Sometimes behind the left.”
“How often?”
“Every few days.”
“Did you tell Dr. Vance?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That nerve damage can create phantom discomfort.”
She became quiet.
I heard typing.
Then:
“I want your original hospital imaging.”
“Marco is obtaining it.”
“Not Vance’s copies.”
My pulse changed.
“What do you mean?”
“I want the scans produced by the emergency department before Dr. Vance became involved.”
I sat straighter.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t diagnose conspiracies, Mr. Moretti.”
“Dominic.”
A pause.
“Dominic.”
She continued.
“But I do diagnose patterns.”
“What pattern?”
“The description in the records your office sent me does not fit every part of your examination.”
I stopped breathing.
“Explain.”
“Your pupils are abnormal.”
“I know.”
“But not completely nonreactive.”
My fingers tightened around the chair.
“What does that mean?”
“It means something is reaching the pathway.”
“Something?”
“Some neural transmission.”
My mouth went dry.
“Dr. Vance said the nerves were destroyed.”
“I have not seen enough to tell you he was wrong.”
“Then why are we talking like this?”
“Because destroyed is a very specific word.”
She rolled closer.
“I do not use it casually.”
For the next two hours, she performed tests I had never experienced.
Electrophysiology.
Ultrasound.
High-resolution orbital imaging.
Contrast studies.
At one point, she asked whether Dr. Vance had ever discussed scarring near the orbital apex.
“No.”
“Steroid treatment?”
“In the first week.”
“How long?”
“Three days.”
“Why stopped?”
“I was told there was no benefit.”
She said nothing.
That silence became louder than reassurance.
At six twenty, Marco arrived carrying an encrypted drive.
Original scans.
Dr. Levin disappeared with them.
I waited.
And hated waiting.
Hannah came in.
Lily immediately climbed into the chair beside mine.
“Mister Dominic?”
“Yes?”
“Did the doctor wake your eyes?”
“Not yet.”
She sighed dramatically.
“She’s slow.”
Hannah said:
“Lily.”
“What?”
“You cannot review medical professionals based on speed.”
“Why?”
I almost smiled.
There was something dangerous about liking the child.
Not because I suspected she was lying.
Because if she was mine, four years of missing her were about to become real.
Pictures.
First words.
Illnesses.
Birthdays.
Nightmares.
Every ordinary thing fatherhood was made of.
I reached toward her voice.
“Can I touch your hand?”
She placed it in mine.
Tiny fingers.
Warm.
Sticky.
“Were you eating something?”
“Cookie.”
“Vanilla?”
“Yes.”
That explained Central Park.
For six months, the first thing I associated with hope was cheap vanilla.
At seven, Dr. Levin returned.
The room changed before she spoke.
Doctors have footsteps too.
Confidence.
Hesitation.
Urgency.
Hers were careful.
“Dominic, I need to say several things in the correct order.”
“I hate correct order.”
“You’ll survive.”
Hannah almost laughed.
Dr. Levin continued.
“First, you are blind.”
“I noticed.”
“Second, your injury was severe.”
“Also noticed.”
“Third, I cannot promise meaningful vision will return.”
My chest tightened.
Then:
“But I do not believe your optic nerves are completely destroyed.”
Everything inside me stopped.
I heard Lily whisper:
“See?”
Nobody answered her.
I said:
“What do you believe?”
“You had traumatic optic neuropathy, but the pattern is complicated by severe scarring and likely chronic compression near both optic canals.”
“Compression?”
“Yes.”
“The initial scans show swelling.”
“The later scans show progressive scar formation.”
“Your electrophysiology suggests some surviving fibers.”
“How much?”
“I cannot quantify function from one evening.”
“Could I see again?”
Silence.
Then:
“Possibly.”
The word hit harder than certainty.
Possibly.
Not miracle.
Not promise.
A door.
“How?”
“Surgery may relieve compression.”
“May?”
“Yes.”
“And medication.”
“Possibly.”
“What are the risks?”
“Worsening the injury.”
“Bleeding.”
“Stroke.”
“Complete irreversible loss of whatever residual neural function remains.”
I almost laughed.
“I already see nothing.”
“That does not mean there is nothing left to lose.”
Good.
Facts.
I liked her.
“What would have happened if the compression had been addressed six months ago?”
Dr. Levin became quiet.
I knew before she answered.
“Your odds may have been better.”
“How much better?”
“I won’t invent a number.”
“Would standard specialist care have included discussion of decompression?”
“In a case with these findings?”
“Yes.”
My hand tightened around the cane.
“Dr. Vance never mentioned it.”
“I cannot tell you why.”
“Did he have the original scans?”
“Yes.”
Marco spoke from the doorway.
“We confirmed transfer.”
I turned toward him.
“Everything?”
“Original imaging was sent to Vance’s office eleven hours after your admission.”
Dr. Levin said:
“I also found something concerning.”
“What?”
“The radiology report was amended.”
My breathing slowed.
“By whom?”
“The original radiologist described possible bilateral optic canal compression and recommended surgical consultation.”
I waited.
“The version in Dr. Vance’s chart omits that recommendation.”
Hannah whispered:
“Oh my God.”
I felt nothing for several seconds.
Then anger arrived.
Cold.
Useful.
“Can reports be legitimately amended?”
“Yes.”
“Was this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the radiologist sign the amended version?”
“No.”
There.
Not proof of crime.
Enough for questions.
My phone vibrated.
Marco answered after I nodded.
He listened.
Then his voice changed.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“Mount Sinai called Hannah’s phone.”
Hannah stood.
“What happened?”
Marco looked toward her.
“Caroline is back in surgery.”
My body went rigid.
“Why?”
“Internal bleeding.”
Hannah gasped.
“She was stable this morning.”
Marco continued.
“Complication from the abdominal repair.”
I stood too quickly.
The room tilted despite blindness.
Dr. Levin caught my arm.
“Dominic.”
“I am going.”
“You have tests tomorrow.”
“Move them.”
She held my arm.
Not controlling.
Steadying.
“Listen to me.”
I stopped.
“If there is any chance of surgery for you, you need decisions made without adrenaline.”
I almost snapped.
Then remembered Central Park.
Facts before conclusions.
“What do you need tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“Go.”
“Come back at eight.”
I nodded.
Then turned toward Hannah.
“Take Lily home.”
“No.”
She sounded shocked.
“Dominic, Caroline may—”
“That is exactly why Lily should not sit in a surgical waiting room listening to adults panic.”
Hannah became quiet.
Lily asked:
“Is Mommy okay?”
Nobody answered quickly enough.
I crouched.
“Your mommy has doctors helping her.”
“Is she sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see her?”
“Not yet.”
She sniffed.
Then:
“Can you?”
The question hurt.
“No.”
Lily touched my face.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
I swallowed.
“Maybe.”
Marco drove me to Mount Sinai.
For the first time in six months, I did not let Isabella describe the corridors.
I asked nurses.
Counted steps.
Used my cane.
Hit one trash can.
Nearly walked into a wall.
I did not care.
Dependence had become a weapon once.
I would learn the world myself again.
Caroline came out of surgery at eleven forty-six.
Stable.
Sedated.
The surgeon said they had repaired a bleeding vessel caused by complications from an earlier emergency procedure after a car collision six weeks before.
I became still.
“Car collision?”
“Yes.”
“Accident?”
The surgeon hesitated.
“Police are investigating.”
Marco heard.
Of course he did.
When the surgeon left, I said:
“Find the report.”
Marco nodded.
Then:
“Boss.”
“What?”
“I already did.”
My pulse changed.
“The car that hit Caroline left the scene.”
“Plate?”
“Stolen.”
“Driver?”
“Unknown.”
“When?”
“Six weeks ago.”
The exact week Isabella began pushing to move our wedding forward.
Coincidence.
Maybe.
No guessing.
Then a nurse approached.
“Mr. Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Reed is awake enough for one visitor.”
My heart stopped.
Four years.
I entered the room alone.
Machines hummed.
Oxygen.
Monitor.
I could smell antiseptic.
Then something familiar.
Not perfume.
Caroline had always hated perfume.
Lavender soap.
My body remembered her before my mind did.
“Dominic?”
Her voice was weak.
But it was her.
Four years disappeared.
Then returned all at once.
I could not speak.
She whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
Of course.
The first words after four years.
I gripped my cane.
“Do not start there.”
She began crying.
“I didn’t know if I’d see you again.”
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“That makes two of us.”
Silence.
Then she whispered:
“Lily found you.”
“Yes.”
“She wasn’t supposed to run.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
Caroline almost laughed.
Then winced.
I moved toward the sound.
Stopped before touching her.
“Can I sit?”
“Yes.”
I found the chair.
For several seconds, we breathed.
Then:
“Is she mine?”
Caroline cried harder.
“I believe so.”
“Believe?”
“We never tested.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid a test would create records Isabella could find.”
My blood went cold.
“You were afraid of Isabella?”
“Yes.”
“Four years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Caroline swallowed.
“Because she didn’t only know I was pregnant.”
“She knew who wanted you blind.”
Every muscle in my body locked.
“Who?”
Caroline whispered:
“Your uncle Salvatore.”
And suddenly the attack outside Midtown was no longer a mystery with no claimant.
It had a name.
One I had trusted since childhood.
One who sat at my father’s funeral.
One who taught me how to shoot.
One who had called me every morning after I lost my sight.
Uncle Salvatore Moretti.
May you like
The man currently running half my empire because I could no longer see the contracts he put in front of me.
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