Chapter 4 - The Voice of Science
Before Dante could take another step toward his trembling wife, the heavy wooden door of Examination Suite 4B swung wide open.
Stepping out into the golden light of the corridor was Dr. Harrison. At fifty-eight, the chief of maternal-fetal medicine at Saint Jude’s was one of the few men in Cook County who did not tremble in the presence of the Russo syndicate. He was a distinguished, stoic figure with neatly styled silver-gray hair that caught the amber glow of the sconces, a trimmed gray beard, and sharp, analytical eyes behind thin, titanium-rimmed spectacles. He wore a crisp, snow-white physician's coat over a pale blue dress shirt and a navy tie, a heavy professional stethoscope draped around his broad neck.
In his right hand, the physician held a freshly printed medical chart and a glossy sheet of white ultrasound paper.
Dr. Harrison’s expression was devoid of the obsequious terror typical of men who encountered Dante Russo. Instead, his weathered face was carved from granite, etched with a severe, uncompromising professional fury. He had spent the last forty minutes inside the examination room examining Emily Russo’s battered body—documenting the severe dehydration, the alarming elevation in her maternal cortisol levels, the early effacement of her cervix, and the unmistakable ligature contusions on her pale wrists.
The doctor stepped firmly into the center of the corridor, placing his body squarely between Dante and the doorframe where Emily clung for support.
Vanessa’s haughty smile tightened slightly at the doctor's abrupt entrance. She adjusted the diamond earrings dangling from her lobes, raising her chin with dismissive aristocratic arrogance. "Dr. Harrison, please. We are handling a delicate domestic matter. Have the nurse prepare a sedative for Mrs. Russo so my driver can transport her to the private estate."
Dr. Harrison did not even acknowledge Vanessa’s presence. He treated the glamorous woman in red as though she were a pane of dirty glass, keeping his stern, unyielding gaze locked entirely onto the towering mafia boss.
"Mr. Russo," Dr. Harrison spoke. His voice was deep, clinical, and carried an authoritative weight that echoed sharply off the cream-colored walls and the marble floor.
Dante stopped, his heavy boots planting into the floorboards. His jaw remained clenched, but his dark, piercing eyes shifted from Emily’s face to the physician’s severe countenance. Dante recognized that tone. It was the tone of a surgeon who was not delivering polite social pleasantries, but a battlefield assessment.
"Speak, Harrison," Dante commanded, his gravelly baritone rumbling through the quiet hall, laced with an undercurrent of suppressed violence.
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Dr. Harrison lifted the ultrasound printout, holding the paper securely between both hands. He did not offer a deference bow; he did not soften the blow. He looked directly into the eyes of Chicago’s most ruthless executioner and spoke with unsparing, clinical gravity.
"Mr. Russo," the doctor said, each syllable falling like a lead weight, "we're concerned about the babies."
