Chapter 3 - THE AWAKENING AT PRESLY MEMORIAL
The room smelled of sharp floor disinfectant, medicinal alcohol, and ozone.
The rhythmic, monotonous BEEP... BEEP... BEEP of a cardiac monitor vibrated through the quiet space. Sunlight filtered through the heavy blinds of the private corner room on the tenth floor of Presly Memorial Hospital, casting long, golden bars across the white linoleum floor.
Vincent Moretti slowly opened his eyes.
His vision was blurry at first, taking several seconds to resolve the dark ceiling tiles, the IV drip hanging above his bed, and the array of silver monitoring wires taped beneath his hospital gown.
Standing at the foot of his bed was Dr. Aris Thorne, the hospital's chief of cardiovascular surgery. Dr. Thorne was an older man with silver hair, wearing a dark blue surgical scrub top, holding a thick digital tablet containing Vincent's diagnostic scans.
"Mr. Moretti," Dr. Thorne said softly, his tone carrying the deep, cautious respect reserved for men whose families owned entire wings of the medical center. "Welcome back."
Vincent tried to move his left hand. The movement was slow, heavy, but the numbness was gone. His jaw clenched as he pushed himself up against the pillows, his broad, tattooed chest rising and falling beneath the white linen sheets.
"What happened?" Vincent rasped, his voice deep, gravelly, and thick with disuse.
"You suffered an acute arterial occlusion—a sudden, massive blockage in your left anterior descending artery," Dr. Thorne explained, tapping the screen to display a high-resolution 3D scan of Vincent's heart. "In plain terms, a widowmaker heart attack. We placed two stents through an emergency catheterization."
Dr. Thorne stepped closer to the side of the bed, his expression growing unusually grave.
"A few more minutes without oxygen, Mr. Moretti, and you might not have woken up," the doctor added quietly. "You were dead on that sidewalk for nearly forty seconds before the paramedics arrived."
Vincent’s expression hardened instantly. The cold, unyielding mask of the Moretti boss returned, locking down any trace of vulnerability. He didn't thank the doctor. He didn't ask about his prognosis.
"Who called them?" Vincent demanded, his gray-green eyes narrowing into sharp, icy slits.
Dr. Thorne paused, checking the triage log on his tablet.
"The 911 dispatch record indicates the call came from a private prepaid phone on the street," the doctor replied. "The paramedics said when they arrived, a little girl was standing beside you on the pavement, holding your head up."
"A little girl?" Vincent repeated, his brow drawing into a hard, incredulous line.
"Yes," Dr. Thorne nodded. "She gave the dispatch operator your exact location and described your symptoms with unnatural precision. Then she vanished before the police could get her name. Whoever she was, Mr. Moretti... she saved your life."
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Vincent stared straight ahead at the far wall, his mind racing through the dark fog of his memory. He remembered the heat of the concrete. He remembered the useless adults filming him. And then he remembered the small hand wiping his brow, the golden curls, and those wide, intelligent gray-green eyes looking down at him.
Unsettled to his very core, Vincent reached up, pulled the monitoring pads off his chest, and swung his heavy legs out of the hospital bed.
