Chapter 2

Evelyn's POV:

Less than ten minutes after the helicopter disappeared toward the estate, the first drop of rain hit the broken car window.

Then the sky opened up.

Rain poured into the overturned vehicle, and the water quickly rose over my ankles.

A voice crackled in and out over the bodyguards' radio.

"The rain's too heavy. Route 9 is flooded... The ambulance is at least 50 minutes out."

I looked at Sophia. Dr. Harris was stabilizing her neck.

She had an oxygen mask over her face, and her skin was gray, like porcelain that might shatter at any moment.

"We can't keep waiting," I said.

"Ma'am, Sophia can't handle being moved without medical support."

"The rain's pouring in. She can't take being drenched in here either."

"Ma'am—"

The monitor suddenly let out a long, piercing alarm.

Sophia's heart rate shot from 120 to over 200. The green trace bunched into a jagged blur.

"V-tach again!"

Dr. Harris turned up the oxygen at once. The nurse pressed the defibrillator pads back down firmly.

"Everyone clear!"

The monitor went silent for two seconds. Those two seconds felt so long that I thought Sophia had died.

My fear was as relentless as the rain outside, slowly washing away what hope I had left.

A faint green line jumped onto the screen. Her heart was beating again.

But I had no idea when the next cardiac arrest would come.

I looked outside.

A black Suburban the attackers had left behind sat by the side of the road, without a scratch on it.

"Move Sophia to that car."

The bodyguard hesitated. "Ma'am, the road ahead hasn't been cleared yet."

I snapped at him. "Then you sit in front of us and clear it with your gun."

He held my gaze for a second, then lowered his head.

"Yes, Donna."

Dr. Harris and the surviving medical staff moved Sophia into the Suburban as fast as they could.

In rain so heavy we could hardly see the road, our car tore down the highway.

Thirty-seven minutes later, we finally met the second ambulance Dante had sent and set off again under an escort of Vassallo armored cars.

When we reached St. Gabriel's, I followed the medical staff the whole way and watched them wheel Sophia into the operating room.

Before the double doors closed in front of me, a nurse told me, "The donor heart is ready, and the whole transplant team is in place. We'll start as soon as we can."

The red light above the operating room came on.

We'd made it in time. All the strength drained out of me, and I sank to the floor.

For the past three years, Sophia's life had been one "you can't" after another.

She couldn't run, couldn't take gym class, couldn't learn to ski. She couldn't even stay in the bathtub too long.

While other children chased each other across the grass, she sat on a bench and watched their coats.

One winter, we took a family trip to Colorado. Sophia wore the pink goggles she'd picked out herself, but she could only watch enviously through the lodge window as the other kids tumbled around on the bunny slope.

Once, at the playground, she'd only climbed three steps up the slide before her chest started heaving and the color drained from her lips.

I ran over to lift her down, but she grabbed the railing and wouldn't let go.

"I'm not tired, Mommy," she said, panting. "I just want to rest here for a second."

All she wanted was to come down the slide once, like any ordinary kid.

With a new, healthy heart, she'd never have to go through that again.

I already had it all planned. Next winter, I'd take her to Denver to learn to ski. She'd fall down, get her gloves wet, and complain that the snow was too cold.

But she'd finally get to have the kind of everyday kid problems nobody bothers to remember.

I knew she'd want her dad when she woke up, so I called Dante.

His phone was off.

I frowned. He'd promised Sophia he'd be back from Sicily for her surgery today.

Add the helicopter on top of that, and my resentment only grew.

I sent him an encrypted message.

"We made it to the hospital. Sophia's in surgery. She'll want to see you when she wakes up."

The message didn't show as delivered.

I put my phone back in my bag and told myself he might be on a plane back to New York.

Suddenly, the operating room doors swung open, and I shot to my feet. A transplant usually took hours.

As Dr. Carter hurried out, I asked anxiously, "It's over already? Is there something wrong with the donor heart?"

"Nothing's wrong with the heart." He stopped in front of me. "The problem is with Sophia.

"The preoperative scan shows bleeding in her brain. It's not much right now, but it hasn't completely stopped."

"Then stop the bleeding first," I said immediately. "You can get it under control and then go ahead with the surgery, right?"

Dr. Carter didn't answer.

I grabbed his arm.

"That heart is right here. You said it's a near-perfect match for Sophia. We'll never find another heart this perfect, will we?"

"The transplant requires putting her on bypass. As long as there's still active bleeding in her brain, the surgery could make that hematoma expand rapidly. She could die on the table."

For a moment I couldn't make sense of what he was saying.

"So she can't have the transplant today? After the gunfight and everything else, it was all for nothing?"

"I'm afraid so."

Then Dr. Carter glanced at the infectious disease specialist beside him.

"And, Mrs. Vassallo, there's a second problem. Sophia's preoperative respiratory screening just came back. She tested positive for RSV."

I froze for a few seconds.

"RSV?"