FIVE: A HEART FOR A HEART

GIANNA

The vibration of the phone against the wooden floorboards sounds like a drill in the silence of the empty house. It jolts me awake. My hand flies to my chest instinctively, checking the machine, checking the wires.

Whir. Click.

It’s still working, still keeping me alive, barely. I snatch the phone. The screen is cracked, a spiderweb of glass over the glowing light.

Dr. Laurel: We have a heart Gi, please come now. Do not wait.

My breath hitches.

A heart means a chance. A second chance at life, and that means time. More time to live, and more time to rise and kick those who kicked me down.

I don't think. I just move, grab my purse, ignoring the dizziness that sways the room like a ship in a storm. I don't have a coat or an umbrella uni, I just have the desperation of a mother fighting for her unborn child.

I run out the door and the storm hits me the moment I step off the porch. It isn't just rain; it is a fucking downpour. The wind howls, tearing at my dress, soaking me to the bone in seconds.

The cold is a physical blow, shocking my system, and making the machinery in my chest struggle to compensate.

I fumble with the keys to the rusted sedan I bought with the last of my cash. It sits in the driveway, like a heap of scrap metal.

"Come on," I beg, shoving the key into the ignition. "Please, just one more time."

I turn the key and the engine sputters. It coughs, then it goes silent.

"No!" I scream, slamming my hands against the steering wheel.

"No, no, no! Not now, you piece of shit!"

I try again. Click. Click. Click. Dead battery or maybe the car just decided to die tonight, just like everything else in my life.

I look at the time on the dash. The hospital is two miles away and Laurel said now. Organs don't last forever. If I miss this window, I die, and my baby dies too.

I kick the door open and step out into the mud.

"I’m coming," I whisper to the darkness. I wrap my arms around my stomach, protecting the tiny life inside. "Mommy is coming."

Then, I start to run.

It is a nightmare. The rain is blinding, coming down in sheets so thick I can barely see the streetlights. The puddles are deep, soaking my sneakers, weighing down my feet. Every step sends a shock of pain up my shins, but the real pain is in my chest.

The LVAD, the pump, is heavy. It drags on my shoulder strap and it makes the connection site at my abdomen burn like fire. I can feel the strain. My lungs are burning, screaming for oxygen that my artificial heart struggles to circulate. One mile.

I stumble over a cracked piece of sidewalk. I catch myself, scraping my hands raw on the concrete, but I don't stop. I can't stop. Not yet.

"Just a little further," I pant, as the taste of copper fills my mouth. "Just... hold on."

Cars rush past me, spraying dirty water onto my legs. No one stops. Why would they? I look like a madwoman. A wet, bedraggled ghost running through a hurricane.

At half a mile, my vision starts to tunnel. The edges of the world go black, and the whirring in my chest is getting louder, drowning out the thunder. It sounds like a grinding gear.

Warning. Warning.

"Shut up," I gasp.

I see the red 'EMERGENCY' sign glowing in the distance. It floats in the dark like a beacon, but my legs are getting numb. I can't feel my feet hitting the pavement anymore. I’m just running on pure adrenaline and maternal instinct.

I reach the hospital driveway. The lights are too bright, they sear my retinas. I stumble toward the sliding glass doors.

"Help," I croak. But the word is swallowed by the wind. Just then, my knees give out and the ground rushes up to meet me.

I brace for the impact, I brace for the end. This is it, I guess.

But, I don't hit the concrete, instead strong arms catch me. They are solid, unyielding like stone and I’m hauled up against a chest that is broad and warm, soaking wet but radiating heat. I blink, trying to clear the rain and the black spots from my eyes.

I look up and the face above me is blurred, but I see eyes. Piercing, electric blue eyes. They are cold and terrifyingly intense.

They glow under the harsh halogen lights of the ambulance bay. He looks like a warrior carved from marble. He looks like the Angel of Death coming to collect his due.

"I... I can't die yet," I whisper, clutching the lapel of his expensive suit. My bloody fingers leave stains on the dark fabric. "My baby..."

"You aren't dying," the man says. His voice is deep, a rumble of thunder that vibrates through my bones. It isn't a comfort, it’s a command. "Not until I say so."

He lifts me effortlessly, cradling me against his chest as he kicks the ER doors open.

"We need a gurney!" he roars. The power in his voice silences the chaotic waiting room. "Now!"

In seconds, nurses swarm us and I am lowered onto a bed. The lights overhead are blinding white lines as we rush down the corridor.

"BP is crashing!" someone yells. "She's in V-fib!"

"Get the pads!"

I turn my head to the side. The man, the blue-eyed stranger is keeping pace with the gurney. He is holding my hand, his grip is bruising. He isn't looking at the doctors; he is looking at me, claiming me.

Dr. Laurel appears above me and her face is pale. "Gianna! Stay with us!"

"The heart..." I gasp. "Did I... make it?"

"We have it," Laurel says, she is moving fast, cutting my dress open, exposing the machinery taped to my skin. "But we have to move fast. Gianna, listen to me."

She shoves a clipboard onto my chest and a pen is pressed into my trembling hand.

"The donor had conditions," Laurel yells over the alarms blaring from the monitors. "Strict legal conditions. You have to sign. If you don't sign, I can't operate."

"What?" I slur. The room is spinning. "Conditions?"

"Just sign it!" The man growls from beside me. He leans in close and I can smell rain, sandalwood and raw power. "Sign the paper if you want to save your child."

My child.

I don't read it, I can't because the words are swimming. I just scribble my name on the line and sign away my soul to the devil to save the angel in my womb.

"She signed," the man says. "Take her."

He lets go of my hand and the loss of his warmth is instant.

"You're going under, Gianna," Laurel says and a mask is placed over my face.

The gas smells sweet and sickly. I try to look for the man one last time. As they wheel me through the double doors of the operating theater, I catch sight of him standing behind the glass of the viewing gallery above.

He stands with his hands in his pockets, watching me like a predator watches prey. Then the darkness takes me and everything becomes void.

There is no light here. No sound. I’m floating in a sea of ink. Is this death?

Then, I see him. Ryan. He’s standing in the darkness, laughing. He’s holding Tasha’s hand and they’re standing over my mother’s grave spitting on it.

"You were weak," Ryan’s voice echoes, surrounding me. "You were nothing. A battery-operated doll."

"You died," Tasha sneers. "And we won."

And suddenly I feel the rage ignite in the center of my chest. It isn't a flicker; it is an explosion. It burns through the void, turning the ink into fire.

No.

I’m not weak. I’m not nothing. I feel a sharp and intrusive pain, cracking my chest open. They’re taking the machine out, cutting away the failure. I will not die. I can’t, not until I’ve made Ryan and everyone else pay.

I scream into the void. "I will kill you! Ryan! I will fucking destroy you!"

Then, the darkness shatters. A Beep. Silence.

"Come on," a voice whispers. It is the man’s voice. The Angel of Death.

Suddenly, I feel a jolt of electricity arching through my body.

Thump. The sensation is alien, strong, and violent. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It isn't the mechanical whir I have lived with for months. It isn't the weak, fluttering bird I was born with. This is a drum. A war drum.

My eyes snap open and the light is dim. I’m in a room that smells of lavender. I take a deep, full breath, and my lungs expand without pain. The blood rushes to my fingertips, warm and vibrant. I lift my hand to my chest. Under the bandages, under the skin, I feel it.

A heart. A real, flesh-and-blood heart. It hammers against my ribs with a ferocity that scares me. It feels... angry, feels powerful.

I turn my head.

The man is sitting in the chair beside my bed. I immediately blink back the tears that burns behind my eyes. He’s in the shadows, but those blue eyes are glowing, fixed on me. He looks exhausted, his tie undone, but his gaze is still sharp.

"Welcome back," he mutters. His voice is devoid of warmth.

He stands up and walks to the side of the bed and places his hand on the railing, leaning over me.

"Who..." my voice is a croak. "Who are you?"

"I'm the man who owns that beat in your chest," he says.

He reaches out and touches the bandage over my heart. His fingers are hot.

"That heart belonged to my mother," he says softly and dangerously. "And now, you belong to me."

I stare at him, confused, terrified, but strangely alive. The fear doesn't paralyze me like it used to. The fear fuels me now.

I look at the monitor, 80 beats per minute. It’s strong, steady and relentless.

Ryan wanted me dead. He wanted me buried, but he made a mistake.

I am not the weak, sickly Gianna anymore. I am something else. I have a borrowed heart, and I have a reason to use it. I look into the stranger’s eyes without flinching.

"If I belong to you," I whisper, the new blood pumping courage through my veins. "Then help me get revenge."

He smiles, but It is a dark, terrifying smile.

"Rest now, little asset," he says. "We have a lot of work to do."