Chapter 3 - The Enforcer's Justice
Down the hall, two of Dominic Moretti’s heavily armed guards stood outside Leo’s room. They stiffened as Clara sprinted toward them, breathless, holding the clear specimen container.
"Let me in. Now," Clara demanded, her voice cutting through the silence.
"Mr. Moretti gave strict orders—" the lead guard began, raising a hand.
"If you don't let me through this door in three seconds, your boss's son will be dead before sunrise," Clara snapped. "Move!"
The sheer intensity in her voice made the guard hesitate. He pushed the heavy oak door open.
Inside, Dominic Moretti was sitting in a chair beside the incubator, his head resting in his bruised hands. He looked up instantly, his dark eyes bloodshot and dangerous. "Nurse Hayes. What is the meaning of this?"
Clara walked straight past him, opened the incubator access hatch, and immediately disconnected the IV line currently infusing clear fluid into Leo’s tiny arm.
Dominic vaulted out of his chair, seizing her wrist with a grip like iron. "What are you doing?! Are you trying to kill him?!"
"Look at the bag, Mr. Moretti!" Clara shouted, thrusting the specimen container into his chest. "That is what Dr. Halston has been feeding your son for the last two weeks!"
Dominic stared down at the container. He grabbed it, bringing it under the overhead examination light. Inside, the fluid separation was obvious, but what caught his eye was a small, handwritten toxicological label pasted over the manufacturer’s barcode—a chemical identifier for a localized metabolic inhibitor designed to block nutrient absorption while mimicking natural wasting syndrome.
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room.
The temperature around Dominic seemed to drop ten degrees. The grief on his face vanished, replaced by a terrifying, primordial fury.
"Halston," Dominic whispered, the word sounding like a death sentence.
"He's in the supply room," Clara said, breathing heavily. "Tied up. He confessed. He's on a retainer from a rival faction to ensure Leo didn't survive."
Dominic slowly turned his gaze from the container to Clara. The raw suspicion in his eyes was replaced by a profound, terrifying respect. Without saying a word, he turned, pulled a heavy-caliber firearm from his shoulder holster, and strode out the door.
"Bring him to my office," Dominic barked to his guards as he passed them in the hall.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Richard Halston—bruised, disheveled, and whimpering—was shoved onto the floor of an empty administrative office on the eighth floor. Dominic sat behind a mahogany desk, the tampered IV bag resting neatly in front of him like a judge’s gavel.
Halston trembled, staring up at the crime boss. "Mr. Moretti... please. It was business. It wasn't personal—"
"Business," Dominic repeated softly. He pulled back the slide of his pistol with a sharp, metallic clack. "You tried to starve my six-day-old son. You used my grief as a weapon."
"I have money!" Halston shrieked, tears streaming down his face. "Offshore accounts! Millions! I'll give it all to you—"
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"Keep your money," Dominic said coldly. "You're going to need it to buy a very deep grave."
Two hours later, Dr. Richard Halston’s medical license was permanently revoked, his bank accounts were systematically frozen and transferred to a pediatric cancer charity by dawn, and he was loaded into the back of an unmarked van heading toward an unmapped destination in the Indiana countryside. He was never seen in Chicago again.
