He had flown in specialists from Houston, neurologists from Boston, pediatric experts from Los Angeles. Fifteen of the “best in the world.”
Each one left with the same answer:
“Your son is perfectly healthy.”
For the first time in his life, Dominic’s money meant nothing.
And that terrified him.
On a velvet armchair nearby sat Isabella Moretti, Luca’s mother. Once a socialite whose face appeared in charity galas and glossy magazines, she was now hollow-eyed from weeks without sleep.
“I can’t watch him suffer anymore,” she whispered, voice breaking.
Dominic checked his watch.
“This is the last one,” he said coldly. “If this nurse fails, I take him out of the country. Or I shut down every hospital in this city until someone gives me answers.”
Outside, the iron gates slowly opened.
An old white Toyota Corolla, at least fifteen years old, rattled its way up the long driveway.
Out stepped Emily Carter.
Her nursing scrubs were faded from too many washes. Her shoes were practical and worn thin from double shifts at a public hospital in Brooklyn. She came from crowded hallways and understaffed wards—places where people survived because they had no other choice.
But her eyes were sharp. Awake. Curious.