Ten minutes passed like hours as Luca’s breathing became shallower and his skin grew hotter.

Then, a low, rhythmic thumping vibrated through the glass walls of the lobby.

The sound grew louder, rattling the metal frames of the windows and shaking the plastic chairs.

A black helicopter painted with the logo of a private security firm descended toward the hospital’s rooftop pad.

Within minutes, the heavy glass doors of the lobby hissed open.

Giovanni Moretti walked in, wearing a dark wool coat that seemed to absorb the harsh fluorescent light.

He had aged, with gray threading through his dark hair, but his posture was as commanding as ever.

Two tall men in suits followed closely behind him, their eyes scanning the room.

Marla Hensley stood up from her chair, her face suddenly pale.

“Who authorized this?” she stammered, looking at the security guards.

Giovanni ignored her, walking straight to me and looking down at our son.

His dark eyes softened for a fraction of a second before hardening into flint.

“Get this child to an ICU room immediately,” Giovanni told Dr. Sullivan.

“You can’t just bypass our administrative process,” Marla protested, her voice rising in panic.

Giovanni turned his head slowly to look at her.

“The hospital board answered to me five minutes ago,” Giovanni said, his voice quiet and deadly. “You are dismissed.”

Dr. Sullivan did not hesitate; he took Luca gently from my arms and signaled for a nurse with a gurney.

“Follow me,” the doctor said, leading us down a long, white hallway toward the pediatric wing.

Giovanni walked beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, a physical wall between me and the rest of the world.

I could feel the tension radiating off him, a reminder of the dangerous world I had tried to escape.

We reached a private room, and Dr. Sullivan quickly began hooking Luca up to an oxygen monitor.