Chapter 3 - A Midnight Summons
The phone on the heavy mahogany desk inside the Bolaro estate library rang at 2:14 a.m.
Roman didn't sleep. Sleep was an indulgence he hadn't afforded himself since the explosion. He sat in a high-backed leather chair facing a wall of unread books, a glass of amber scotch untouched at his elbow, watching the city lights bleed through the tall Gothic windows. When the secure line buzzed — a private, encrypted frequency known to only three people on earth — his hand moved to the receiver before the second ring had finished.
"Speak," Roman said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that could curdle blood.
"Mr. Bolaro," a voice whispered on the other end. It was tight, strained, vibrating with a panic she was struggling to keep boxed down. "This is Elena Cross. The NICU nurse."
Roman stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor. In the criminal underworld, middle-of-the-night calls from hospitals meant only one thing. The monitor had flatlined. The inevitable end had arrived. A cold, dark fury seized his chest, tightening his throat. "If he's gone," Roman whispered, each word a lethal promise, "Sloan and every doctor on that floor won't live to see the sunrise."
"He's not dead," Elena interrupted sharply, cutting through his threat without a flinch. "At least... not yet. But what I'm about to tell you is worse, Mr. Bolaro. Much worse."
Roman froze, the phone gripped so hard his knuckles turned white. "Explain."
"I can't do it over an unsecured line," Elena said quickly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing in the background as if she were pacing inside a supply closet. "Sloan's people are walking the halls. If they catch me on this phone, or if they find out what I've discovered... I won't last the hour. You need to come to the hospital. Now. Come through the loading dock service elevator on the west side. I'll disable the security latch. But you can't bring your usual men. If Sloan sees an army roll up, he'll destroy the evidence before you reach the third floor."
"What evidence?" Roman demanded, his mind racing through a dozen threat vectors. "What are you talking about, nurse?"
"The baby in incubator four, Mr. Bolaro," Elena breathed, her voice trembling over the static. "The baby you've been sitting beside for nineteen days... is not your son."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
For three seconds, the universe stopped spinning. The heavy grandfather clock in the corner of the library ticked with deafening volume. Not his son. The words echoed in Roman’s brain, dismantling every agonizing hour, every tear he hadn’t shed, every prayer he’d choked down while staring at that glass box.
A lesser man would have broken furniture, screamed, or lost his mind. Roman Bolaro simply went very, very cold. A terrifying, surgical calm settled over him. If someone had dared to play a sick game with his flesh and blood, playing him for a fool while his wife lay cold in the ground, he would dismantle St. Andrews Hospital brick by brick until he found the truth.
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He reached for his holster resting on the desk, buckling the heavy leather harness over his black shirt. He slid a suppressed Sig Sauer P226 into place, checked the magazine, and pocketed a secure burner phone.
Ten minutes later, a matte-black bulletproof Maybach slipped out of the estate gates without its headlights, gliding through the silent Chicago streets like a shark through dark water.
