THE SYNDICATE'S NURSE

Antonio’s heavy body collapsed over mine.

A sickening, wet thud echoed in my ears, accompanied by a sharp grunt of pain from Antonio.

“Antonio!” I screamed.

Before Carlo could aim for a second shot, a high-caliber crack echoed from the parking lot.

Marcus had taken the shot.

Carlo’s shoulder exploded in a mist of red. He screamed, dropping the gun and the tablet, staggering backward toward the edge of the pier.

He looked at his shattered arm in shock, then looked back at us, his eyes filled with terrified realization. He had lost.

Clutching his bleeding shoulder, Carlo turned and bolted into the maze of shipping containers, disappearing into the fog.

I didn't care about Carlo.

I frantically pushed myself out from under Antonio’s weight.

“Leo, are you okay? Are you hit?” I checked the little boy frantically.

Leo shook his head, his eyes wide with horror, staring at his father.

I turned to Antonio.

He was lying on his back, gasping for air. His white dress shirt was rapidly turning a dark, terrifying crimson just below his collarbone.

“Oh God. Antonio.”

I ripped my jacket off, balled it up, and pressed it as hard as I could against the entry wound to stop the bleeding.

Antonio groaned, his eyes fluttering.

“Marcus!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Get the car! We need a trauma surgeon now!”

Marcus sprinted down the pier, practically throwing the SUV into drive to bring it closer.

“Sophie…” Antonio choked out. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. A punctured lung.

“Don't speak. Breathe slowly. I’ve got you,” I commanded, my hands slipping on his blood as I maintained pressure.

“Leo…” Antonio turned his head slightly, looking at his son.

Leo was kneeling beside us, his small hands hovering over his father, too terrified to touch the blood.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Antonio whispered to the boy. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

Then, the most miraculous, heartbreaking thing happened.

Leo, who hadn't spoken a single word in two years, opened his mouth.

His voice was raspy, small, and broken.

“Daddy.”

Antonio’s eyes widened. A single tear slipped down his hardened face, mixing with the dirt on the wooden pier.

“I love you, Leo,” Antonio breathed.

His eyes rolled back in his head. His body went entirely limp.

“No, no, no! Antonio, stay with me!” I screamed, pressing harder on the wound.

I looked at Leo. The boy was sobbing openly now.

“Leo, look at me,” I said firmly, snapping him out of his panic. “I need you to be brave. I need you to hold this jacket exactly where my hands are. Press as hard as you can.”

Leo nodded. He placed his small hands over mine, pressing down with all his might.

I quickly ripped open Antonio’s shirt, assessing the exit wound on his back. It was messy, but the bullet had passed straight through.

Marcus slammed the SUV to a halt beside us.

“Help me get him in the back!” I ordered.

Together, Marcus and I hauled Antonio’s massive, lifeless body into the back of the SUV. I jumped in beside him, pulling Leo into the front seat.

“Drive to St. Jude’s,” I barked at Marcus. “It’s the closest hospital. My grandmother’s doctors are there.”

Marcus floored it.

The back of the SUV turned into a makeshift trauma bay. I used everything I could find—seatbelts, spare shirts—to pack the wound and keep the pressure.

Antonio’s pulse was fading. Thready and weak.

“Hold on, Antonio. You do not get to die after hearing your son call you Daddy for the first time,” I gritted my teeth, tears blurring my vision.

As we swerved through the empty city streets, Antonio’s hand weakly reached up.

His bloody fingers brushed against my cheek.

He didn't have the strength to speak. But he slipped his hand into his bloody pocket and pulled something out.

He pressed it into my palm and closed my fingers around it.

It was a small, velvet box.

Before I could ask what it was, his hand dropped, and the monitor I was checking in my head confirmed my worst fear.

He was coding.

“Marcus, faster!” I screamed, starting chest compressions on the man I realized, in that terrifying moment, I was falling in love with.

We crashed through the ambulance bay doors of St. Jude’s three minutes later.

I shouted medical terms at the trauma team as they pulled Antonio onto a gurney and rushed him through the double doors.

I tried to follow, but a nurse held me back.

“You can't go in there, honey. Let them work.”

I collapsed against the sterile white wall, covered in his blood, trembling uncontrollably.

Leo ran over and wrapped his arms around my legs, burying his face in my scrub pants.

I sank to the floor, pulling the little boy into my lap, rocking him back and forth in the harsh fluorescent light of the waiting room.

I sat there for hours.

At some point, Marcus brought Maria to the hospital. She had recovered enough from the poison to walk, though she leaned heavily on a cane.

When she saw me covered in her son’s blood, holding her grandson, she didn't say a word. She just sat next to me and held my hand.

Finally, just as the sun was beginning to rise over Brooklyn, the double doors opened.

A surgeon in bloody scrubs walked out.

I stood up, my heart in my throat.

The surgeon looked at Maria, then at me.

“The bullet missed his heart by a millimeter,” the doctor said, taking off his surgical cap. “He lost a massive amount of blood. But he’s young, he’s strong, and whoever packed that wound in the field saved his life.”

He smiled at me.

“He’s going to make it.”

I let out a sob of pure relief, my knees buckling. Maria caught me, pulling me into a fierce embrace.

“Thank you, Sophie,” she whispered in my ear. “Thank you for saving my family.”