Chapter 13 - CONTRACTIONS UNDER FIRE
Sloan stood over his uncle, the steel blade gleaming under the flickering surgical light.
Vincent scrambled backward on his elbows, leaving a smear of dark blood on the tiles.
“Sloan! Wait!” Vincent wheezed, his arrogance finally cracking into naked terror. “I am your father's brother! Marchetti blood doesn't kill Marchetti blood!”
“You poisoned my sister,” Sloan said, taking a step forward. “You framed my wife. You brought hired butchers to cut open my unborn son.”
Sloan lowered the knife until the tip touched the hollow of Vincent's throat.
“You stopped being my blood three years ago.”
“Sloan.”
A soft, weak voice called from the gurney behind him.
Sloan paused.
He didn't turn around, but his hand stayed steady.
“Don't do it in front of him,” Delphine whispered.
Sloan looked down at the tiny bundle in her arms.
The baby was wrapped in a sterile blue blanket, nestled against Del’s breast, his little eyes blinking sleepily.
Del looked at Sloan.
Her eyes were clear, fierce, and full of grace.
“Our son’s first memory will not be his father slitting a man’s throat in his nursery,” Del said quietly. “Let the law take what’s left of him.”
Vincent let out a pathetic, trembling sigh of relief.
“Yes... yes, call the police! Let the federal courts decide—”
Sloan turned his head slightly toward Bishop.
“Bishop.”
“Sir?”
“Hand Vincent over to the Massachusetts State Police,” Sloan said. “Along with the surveillance tapes of the walnut poison, the digitalis ledgers, and the offshore bank accounts he used to pay the hitmen at the Copper Lantern.”
Vincent’s jaw dropped.
“Federal prison?” Vincent gasped. “Florence ADX? Sloan, that’s solitary confinement for life!”
“You’ll have thirty years to think about the family you tried to destroy,” Sloan said coldly.
He turned his back on his uncle.
Bishop grabbed Vincent by his hair, hauling him out into the rain-swept hallway.
The sirens of eighty Boston police cruisers and state tactical units were already converging on Saint Jude’s Hospital below.
Sloan walked back to the gurney.
He reached down and scooped Delphine into his arms, blanket, baby, and all.
He held them both against his chest, shielding them with his broad frame as he carried them out onto the roof.
The Black Hawk helicopter sat idling on the helipad, its rotors spinning lazily against the clearing dawn sky.
Dr. Alva boarded first, setting up the portable incubator.
Sloan stepped into the cabin, settling Delphine onto the padded leather bench.
He wrapped a heavy wool blanket around her shoulders.
Then he took his son from her arms.
He held the baby in the crook of his left arm, his massive hand supporting the tiny neck.
The sunrise broke over Boston Harbor, flooding the helicopter cabin with brilliant, warm gold.
The baby yawned, stretching his small fingers toward the light.
“What are we naming him?” Sloan asked, his voice softer than the morning breeze.
Del leaned her head against Sloan’s shoulder, looking down at their child.
“Leo,” she said softly. “Because he fought like a lion to be here.”
Sloan’s throat hitched.
He touched his lips to the boy’s soft forehead.
“Leo Marchetti,” Sloan murmured. “A lion of the North End.”
May you like
The helicopter lifted off from the roof, soaring out over the glittering blue waters of the harbor, leaving the burning empire and the shattered past behind them forever.
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