Chapter 2 - The Name Written on a Death Sentence
“They shot you because of me?”
Clare stared at the wounded stranger, unable to believe what she'd just heard.
Tommy's fingers tightened around her wrist.
“Don't... trust the hospital.”
Then his eyes rolled back.
“Tommy?”
She pressed two fingers against his neck.
His pulse was dangerously weak.
“Dominic, he's crashing!”
Dominic leaned forward. “Do something!”
“I am doing something. Tell your driver to stop throwing us around!”
For a moment, the powerful man looked ready to argue.
Then he grabbed the radio.
“Marco, slow down. No sharp turns.”
The convoy reduced its speed.
Clare checked the pressure dressing again. Blood continued to seep through the fabric.
“He's lost too much blood,” she said. “Where are we going?”
“A private surgical center.”
“How far?”
“Eight minutes.”
“Call ahead. Tell them he's going to need blood, a vascular surgeon, and an operating room ready immediately.”
Dominic reached for his phone.
Clare watched him make the arrangements with a voice that never rose above a controlled whisper.
She had seen powerful men in emergency rooms before.
Politicians.
Millionaires.
Men who thought shouting could make doctors work faster.
Dominic was different.
He looked like someone who could command an entire city, yet couldn't make his younger brother breathe.
When Clare adjusted Tommy's jacket, a folded piece of paper slipped from his pocket.
It landed against her knee.
A child's drawing.
Three stick figures stood outside a yellow house beneath an enormous orange sun.
One figure was labeled DADDY.
Another was labeled LUCY.
The third was taller than the others.
UNCLE DOM.
Across the bottom, in uneven purple letters, someone had written:
Everybody comes home.
Clare's throat tightened.
“Does he have a daughter?”
Dominic looked at the drawing.
For the first time, his expression changed completely.
“Eight years old.”
“What's her name?”
“Lucy.”
Clare looked down at Tommy.
“Then let's get her father home.”
The surgical center stood behind an ordinary brick building in Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood.
Its entrance was brightly lit, but there was no sign announcing its connection to Dominic Castellano.
Two medical workers waited with a stretcher.
A woman in navy scrubs hurried forward.
“I'm Dr. Elena Ruiz.”
“Clare Sullivan,” Clare replied. “Registered nurse. Gunshot wounds to the right thigh. Significant blood loss. Pressure dressing in place. He's becoming unstable.”
Elena studied her briefly.
“Good. Come with us.”
Dominic followed as they rushed Tommy inside.
A security guard tried to stop him at the operating room doors.
Dominic didn't even slow down.
“Sir,” Elena said firmly, “you cannot come any farther.”
“That's my brother.”
“And I'm trying to keep him alive.”
The words stopped him.
Clare saw his fists tighten.
Elena glanced toward her.
“You worked trauma?”
“Nine years.”
“Then I could use another pair of experienced hands.”
Clare looked down at her rain-soaked clothes.
“I was fired today.”
Elena pulled a clean gown from a cabinet.
“Your former employer's opinion doesn't change what you know.”
For the first time that night, Clare felt something close to dignity.
She took the gown.
Nearly two hours later, Tommy was out of surgery.
A vascular surgeon had repaired the damaged blood vessel. He had received a transfusion, and although his condition remained serious, his blood pressure was improving.
Elena stepped into the hallway.
“He survived the operation.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Then he asked, “When can I see him?”
“Soon. But he's not out of danger. The next twenty-four hours matter.”
Dominic nodded.
“Thank you.”
Elena glanced at Clare.
“Your nurse made a difference tonight.”
Dominic turned toward her.
Clare was sitting beside a vending machine, wearing borrowed scrubs. Her wet hair hung around her shoulders.
She looked exhausted.
Dominic approached.
“How much do you want?”
Clare frowned.
“For what?”
“Saving my brother.”
“I didn't do it for money.”
“Everyone needs something.”
Clare looked at the grocery bag beside her feet.
Inside were the last belongings from a job she'd loved.
“I need my life back.”
Dominic said nothing.
Then he sat beside her.
“My brother isn't involved in my business,” he said.
Clare glanced at him.
“What business would that be?”
“Transportation. Construction. Other things.”
“Other things that require five SUVs and armed guards?”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“You're not easily intimidated.”
“I was terrified when you pulled that gun.”
“You didn't show it.”
“I was too busy looking at your brother.”
Dominic studied her.
“Tommy and I haven't agreed on much lately. He thinks I've forgotten who we were before the money.”
“Have you?”
The question surprised him.
Before he could answer, Marco approached.
“Boss. We found something in Tommy's jacket.”
He handed Dominic a sealed plastic evidence pouch.
Inside was a blue carbon-copy transfer ticket.
Dominic examined it.
His expression darkened.
“Where did he get this?”
Marco shook his head.
“It came from our South Side distribution warehouse.”
Clare leaned forward.
“May I see it?”
Dominic hesitated, then passed it over.
The paper was creased and spotted with dried blood.
At the top were the words:
ST. JUDE'S MEMORIAL HOSPITAL — EMERGENCY MEDICAL SUPPLY TRANSFER
A shipment number appeared beneath it.
4418\.
Forty emergency hemorrhage kits had supposedly been transferred from St. Jude's to Meridian Private Medical Services.
Clare frowned.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Why?”
“Our emergency department was short on those kits last week. We were told the replacement shipment was delayed.”
She examined the document more closely.
Then her stomach dropped.
The authorization box carried a familiar employee number.
Her employee number.
Below it was a signature.
Clare Sullivan, RN.
She stared.
“That's impossible.”
Dominic took the paper.
“What's wrong?”
“I didn't sign this.”
“Are you certain?”
“I've never authorized a medical supply transfer in my life.”
Marco leaned over Dominic's shoulder.
“Maybe someone entered the wrong employee number.”
Clare pointed at the timestamp.
“Look at the date.”
It was today's date.
Then she pointed at the time.
3:17 p.m.
She had been dismissed from St. Jude's before noon.
Her badge had been confiscated.
Her access had supposedly been disabled.
Yet someone had used her identity hours later to approve a valuable shipment of emergency medical supplies.
Dominic's phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen, then turned it toward Clare.
Marco had forwarded him an image retrieved from the warehouse's delivery records.
It showed the same transfer ticket.
But underneath her forged signature was another authorization.
CASTELLANO TRANSPORT — APPROVED FOR RELEASE.
Dominic's company.
Clare slowly lifted her eyes.
“Your trucks delivered those supplies?”
Dominic didn't answer immediately.
“That's what the paperwork says.”
“And your brother found out?”
“He was looking into irregular deliveries.”
“Is that why someone shot him?”
Dominic's silence frightened her.
Clare stood.
“I need to leave.”
“Clare—”
“I don't know you. I don't know what your family does. And now my name is on a shipment I never approved.”
Dominic rose.
“You heard Tommy. Someone is hunting you.”
“Then maybe you're the last person I should be standing beside.”
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Elena appeared at the end of the hallway.
“Clare? You need to see this.”
She carried a tablet displaying the hospital's public patient-record inquiry screen, accessed through the transfer information on Tommy's ticket.
Elena turned it toward them.
The records showed an investigation into missing emergency supplies.
The listed responsible employee was Clare Sullivan.
But that wasn't what made Clare's hands start trembling.
Attached to the investigation was a scanned report describing the unknown trauma patient she'd saved earlier that day.
The report claimed he had suffered fatal complications because of her unauthorized procedure.
And beneath the report was another signature.
Hers.
Clare whispered, “He was alive when I left him.”
Elena looked at her carefully.
“According to this report, Clare, you didn't save that man.”
May you like
She paused.
“They're saying you killed him.”
