Chapter 2

The rapid ringing of the phone cut through the heavy, blood-scented air.

Emerson looked at the screen. The caller ID read: Mount Sinai Hospital - Pediatric ICU.

Her stomach dropped straight to the floor. All the blood drained from her face.

She pressed the answer button. Her hand was shaking so badly the phone slipped against her ear.

"Hello?" she whispered.

"Emerson, it's Nurse Ramona," the voice on the other end was rushed and breathless. "You need to get here now. Leo collapsed in his room. His vitals are crashing."

The phone slipped from Emerson's sweaty fingers. It hit the wooden floor with a loud clack.

Her brain went completely blank. She couldn't breathe. The walls of the apartment started spinning.

Alden ignored his bleeding arm. He bent down, picked up the phone, and put it to his ear.

He listened for two seconds, his jaw tightening. He hung up and grabbed Emerson by her uninjured shoulder.

"We are leaving. Now," Alden said.

He pulled her out of the apartment and down the stairs. They burst onto the Brooklyn street and Alden threw his hand up.

A yellow taxi slammed on its brakes. Alden shoved Emerson into the back seat and climbed in after her.

"Mount Sinai. Step on it," Alden barked at the driver.

The taxi swerved through the heavy New York evening traffic.

Emerson sat frozen in the back seat. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper.

Tears streamed down her face, completely silent. Her chest he heave with dry, silent sobs.

Alden wrapped his bloody arm around her shoulders. He pulled her tight against his chest, murmuring words she couldn't hear over the roaring in her ears.

The taxi screeched to a halt in front of the emergency room doors.

Emerson shoved the door open before the car even fully stopped. She sprinted through the sliding glass doors.

The sharp smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol hit her face. It made her stomach cramp.

She ran to the elevators, mashing the button for the third floor. Pediatric Hematology.

The doors dinged open. Emerson ran down the bright white hallway.

Nurse Ramona stepped out of a room and held up her hands, stopping Emerson in her tracks.

"He's stabilized for now, but you need to be quiet," Ramona said softly.

Emerson pressed her face against the glass window of the isolation room.

Five-year-old Leo lay on the massive hospital bed. A clear oxygen mask covered his tiny face. His skin was the color of old paper.

Dr. Alistair Finch walked out of the room. He held a thick medical chart. His face was grim.

"Emerson. Alden. Come with me," Dr. Finch said.

He led them down the hall into a sterile, windowless consultation room.

Dr. Finch sat down and slid a stack of blood test results across the table.

"Leo's hematopoietic stem cells are failing rapidly," Dr. Finch said. His voice was clinical, but heavy. "His bone marrow is shutting down."

Emerson stared at the complex charts. The black lines on the paper blurred together. A wave of pure despair washed over her.

"The conventional treatments are no longer working," Dr. Finch continued. "He needs a bone marrow transplant to survive."

Alden leaned forward, his good hand slamming onto the table.

"I'll pay whatever it takes," Alden said. "Expedite the search in the registry. Money is not an issue."

Dr. Finch shook his head slowly.

"It's not about money. Leo's blood type and genetic sequence are extremely rare. There is not a single match in the entire national registry."

Emerson felt the room tilt. She grabbed the edge of the table. Her knuckles turned stark white.

"There is one last option," Dr. Finch said, hesitating for a fraction of a second. "It is highly controversial, but medically viable."

Emerson looked up, her eyes wide and desperate. "Anything."

"You need to have another child with Leo's biological father," Dr. Finch said. "We can harvest the stem cells from the newborn's umbilical cord blood. It's a guaranteed genetic match."

The words hit Emerson like a physical punch to the gut.

Her pupils dilated. Her breathing stopped.

Alden's face turned dark red. He clenched his fists so hard his bones popped.

The image of Finnegan Mcconnell's cold, ruthless face flashed in Emerson's mind. A violent cramp seized her stomach.

She pushed her chair back violently. The metal legs screeched against the linoleum floor as it tipped over and crashed.

"No," Emerson gasped. She backed away from the table. "No. That man is dead."

Down the hall, standing in the shadows of a private administrative office, a tall figure stood perfectly still.

Finnegan Mcconnell wore a perfectly tailored black suit. His eyes were like shards of ice, locked onto the live audio transcript scrolling across his encrypted phone screen, forwarded by the hospital's board director.

The digital feed from the consultation room piped clearly into his earpiece. Every ragged breath she took, every tremble in her voice, transmitted with brutal clarity directly into his ear. He didn't blink. The muscles in his jaw tightened incrementally, a microscopic reaction to the raw desperation bleeding through the audio.

He heard her words. That man is dead.

Finnegan's jaw ticked. A cruel, bitter smirk twisted his lips.

He squeezed his hand. The paper coffee cup in his grip crumpled and burst.