Crossroads

Ms Russo,” the doctor called as he settled down in his office, passing a report to me.

“Your daughter had a congenital heart defect,” he said, leaning in closer.

“W-what does that mean?” I asked, staring at his face.

“It's Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. The wall of the heart is thickened — it’s been there since birth, likely dormant until now.” He added again.

“N-no, That's impossible, she just had a seizure, low blood sugar or something, s-she cannot, she’s fine, i-it was just, she just passed out at school, it cannot be that serious ” I argued, laying the reports down.

“Ms Russo, I understand it’s hard to comprehend, but that was just a warning, without intervention, she will have another ans the next one may not be recoverable.”

“What kind of intervention?”

“A transplant.” He folded his hands on the desk. “We have a donor heart. A match. It came available yesterday, which is—” he paused, choosing carefully, “—fortunate. Hearts don’t wait, Ms. Russo. If we can’t move forward within eight weeks, it goes to the next patient on the list. After that, we start over. A new search. That could take months. Could take years.”

“Years,” I repeated, swallowing hard.

“Years.” He held my gaze. “I won’t tell you she has that kind of time, the clock is ticking and without the surgery, it’s hard to say, but you should expect the worst.

“And what type of worst are we talking about?” I asked, bracing for whatever was to come.

“Death, but it won’t happen if she gets the transplant before then,” he said.

“Then do it!” I yelled, unable to keep my voice low.

“It cannot be done, we need you to pay—“

“How much?” I asked, standing up now.

The doctor hesitated before answering. “The surgery itself, the transplant team, the medication after the procedure… it will come to roughly eight hundred thousand dollars.”

The number hit me like a punch. “Eight… hundred… thousand?” I repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

My fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. “That’s insane.”

“I understand it’s a lot,” he said calmly, “but heart transplants are complex procedures.”

I let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through my hair. Eight hundred thousand dollars might as well have been eight billion.

Because right now I had nothing.

The Russo empire had collapsed years ago. Every account frozen, every property seized. I had spent the last few years building a quiet life from scratch, far away from New York, far away from the chaos that destroyed my family.

And yet somehow the past still managed to find me.

“Is there… any other option?” I asked quietly.

The doctor shook his head. “Without the transplant, the condition will worsen. Medication might buy a little time, but it won’t solve the problem.”

“How much time?” I asked.

“A year, maybe two if she’s lucky.” My stomach twisted.

“She’s four years old,” I whispered.

He nodded solemnly. “Which is exactly why we need to act quickly.” Silence filled the office.

For a moment all I could hear was the faint hum of the air conditioner and the frantic beating of my own heart.

Eight weeks and eight hundred thousand dollars.

Eight weeks to save my daughter’s life.

I swallowed hard. “I’ll find the money.”

The doctor studied me carefully. “You should also prepare yourself emotionally. Even with the surgery, there are risks.”

“I said I’ll find the money,” I repeated, my voice firmer now.

The next weeks were terrible, I’d tried everywhere I could think of, churches, charity, hospitals, I’d begged, to no avail, my daughter was dying and—

***

The next few weeks were terrible. I tried everywhere I could think of, churches, charities, hospitals. I begged, pleaded, filled out forms, waited in endless offices. Each place promised to “review my case.” Each one called back days later with the same answer.

They couldn’t help.

Eight hundred thousand dollars was simply too much.

And every day that passed was another day closer to the end of those eight weeks.

My daughter was dying and there was nothing I could do about it.

“Mom,” Aria called weakly from the hospital bed she lay on.

I turned quickly, forcing a smile onto my face as I walked over to her. The room felt too quiet, the soft beeping of the monitor beside her the only sound breaking the silence.

“Yes, baby?” I said gently, sitting down beside her.

Her small fingers reached out and wrapped around my hand. They felt so fragile in my palm it made my chest ache.

“Are you crying?” she asked softly.

I quickly wiped my cheek. “No, sweetheart.”

“You are,” she insisted, her little brows knitting together. “Your eyes are shiny.”

I let out a shaky breath and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “I’m just tired.”

“You should sleep,” she murmured.

A small, sad smile pulled at my lips. “I will later.”

She watched me quietly for a moment before speaking again. “The doctor said my heart is sick.”

My throat tightened.

“Yes,” I said softly.

“But you’re going to fix it, right?” she asked, her voice so full of trust it nearly broke me. “You always fix everything.”

For a moment I couldn’t speak.

Because the truth was… I didn’t know how.

But I nodded anyway, squeezing her hand gently. “Of course I will.”

She smiled weakly and closed her eyes again, clearly exhausted.

I sat there beside her for a long time after she fell asleep, listening to the steady beep of the heart monitor and watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Eight hundred thousand dollars, and my time was running out fast.

There was only one man I knew in the world who had that kind of money and wouldn’t even notice it missing.

A man I had spent the last five years avoiding.

My stomach twisted as the name surfaced in my thoughts.

Salvatore Moretti.

I looked down at Aria sleeping peacefully in the hospital bed, her tiny hand still wrapped loosely around my finger.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Because the truth was becoming painfully clear.

If I wanted to save my daughter’s life…

I might have to go back to the one man who had destroyed mine.