Chapter 8
The words struck Luciano with the physical force of a sledgehammer. Premature labor. He stared at the doctor, the color draining slightly from his fair, rosy skin. His child was not due for another two months. The horrific reality of his brother's actions crashed down upon him.
"Move her," Luciano commanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal whisper. "Do whatever it takes to save them both. If you need specialists from the city, fly them in by helicopter. Spare no expense."
"We are on it, Boss," Dr. Evans nodded.
The nurses quickly unfolded a portable medical transport stretcher. With utmost care, they lifted the weeping, terrified Celeste onto the padded surface. Luciano walked beside the stretcher as they began wheeling her down the long, brightly lit corridor toward the estate’s private surgical wing.
Before he crossed the threshold, Luciano stopped. He turned his head slowly, looking back over his shoulder at the foyer.
Dario was still sitting in the wreckage of the graduation display, holding his bleeding nose. Augusto was trapped against the marble console, surrounded by four heavily armed bodyguards.
"Marcus," Luciano called out, his American accent slicing through the quiet tension of the room.
"Yes, Boss," the head of security replied instantly.
"Take them to the soundproof interrogation rooms in the sub-basement," Luciano ordered. Every syllable was measured, cold, and dripping with an apocalyptic promise of violence. "Zip-tie them to the chairs. Confiscate their phones. Do not give them food. Do not give them water. They wait in the dark until I return."
"Luciano, you cannot lock me in a cell!" Augusto shrieked, his aristocratic dignity completely shattering as the bodyguards grabbed his arms. "I am your father! I am the former Don of this family!"
"You are a prisoner. In my house," Luciano corrected softly, his cold, intimidating eyes utterly devoid of mercy. "And if my wife or my child dies on that operating table. You will not leave that basement alive."
"Dom, please!" Dario begged, sobbing openly as the guards hauled him to his feet. "I didn't mean to hurt the baby! It was Dad's idea! He made me do it!"
"Take them away," Luciano whispered.
The guards dragged the screaming, thrashing men out of the bright, cinematic light of the foyer and toward the heavy steel doors leading to the underground levels. Their panicked voices echoed off the marble walls before fading completely into the depths of the estate.
Luciano turned back to the corridor and sprinted toward the surgical wing. He burst through the double doors just as the nurses were wheeling Celeste into the sterile, brightly lit operating room.
He shed his tailored dark suit jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair, and grabbed a sterile surgical gown and mask from the scrub station. He moved with frantic, desperate speed, his tattooed hands trembling slightly as he tied the mask over his neatly trimmed stubble.
He pushed his way into the operating room and took his place beside Celeste’s head. He grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly.
"I'm right here, Celeste," Luciano murmured, his voice steadying, providing a deep, masculine anchor for her terror. "I'm not leaving your side."
"I'm scared, Luciano," Celeste cried, squeezing his hand so hard her knuckles turned white. "It's too early. The baby is too small."
"Our baby is a Ferraro," Luciano promised fiercely, pressing his masked face close to hers. "They are strong. Just like their mother. You focus on breathing. Let the doctors do their work. I have everything else handled."
Dr. Evans stood at the foot of the bed, his expression intensely focused. "Her blood pressure is spiking. We need to perform an emergency C-section, Mr. Ferraro. We cannot wait for natural dilation. The stress on the fetus is too high."
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"Do it," Luciano commanded, his eyes never leaving his wife's face.
The bright overhead surgical lights flared, washing out the cinematic colors of the room in stark, clinical white. The true battle for the survival of the Ferraro bloodline had just begun.
