"Stop the Sedation." Zola burst into the theatre. "You, you, and you with the ancient beard, out," He ordered, pointing to the doctors in the room.
"By what authority, Zola?"
"As the Cross' Family Doctor,"
A younger doctor looked up from the monitors, her eyes wide with alarm. "Dr. Zola, you cannot be serious. Her BP is already bottoming out. Without sedation, the shock alone could—"
"Could what? Kill her? Wasn't that your plan?" Zola snapped. "My way gives her a chance. Now get out."
He turned to the perky nurse with the messy blonde wig and exaggerated cleavage, "Get me epinephrine and fentanyl."
"Hey, Mrs. Cross, I know you're scared and uncertain, and you'd rather we saved the child, but fret not, your husband chose me, so he chose you and the child walking out together."
He rubbed her temple, looking down at her like she was a broken goat.
"Please just save the baby, I don't want to lose another child." She mouthed, tears pouring down her face.
"Another child… I know you are scared." The nurse burst in with his request. He studied it and smiled.
"Now get the fuck out."
The nurse hurried out, a look of relief on her face, not wanting to be part of Zola's madness.
"This is gonna hurt, but I need you to stay up." He said, giving her the dose of the drugs. "If you go unconscious, dead, if you die, well, you are dead, and we do not want that." He said, strapping her to the bed.
Jema grabbed onto the sheets like it was her life. "Just get on with it, shit, you talk too much…"
"Here we go… I guess," He said.
…
Nate sat in the car, headed towards downtown, not the location where LaRue had told him his kids were, to an old life. A life he promised never to go back to. The only thing that may help him now.
He picked up his phone and looked at the number for half a mile down the road – Uncle Victor.
He dialed there was no answer, just a voicemail prompt.
"Unavailable." If you have this number, you know where to find me."
He looked at his watch, 8:32 PM. "Uncle Victor would be at the club," he murmured under his breath, gripping the steering wheel.
His mind flashed back to Jema. He felt alone for the first time in years. They always made moves together. Today, she was not there to audit his plans; he thought about her scared look and current predicament. If he did the right thing by trusting Jema with Doctor Zola. The kids, how scared yet defiant Lila looked in the picture, everything in him screamed he would pull through this, and everyone would be fine. He forced a smile.
The silhouette of downtown sullied the beautiful night sky, the familiar but forgotten musk of crime, filth, and death. Smoke from the sewers below, whores whistled by the side of the street, on the other side, corner boys slinging weed or crack nonchalantly to the two men mugging a lady who didn't look like she was from there. Downtown was hell, the most destructive place he had been across; it somehow looked worse than when he was here. To Nate, it used to be home, where he was raised and learnt to thrive regardless of the circumstances.
'Jema fought tooth and nail to make sure the kids or I never have to show up here.' Shuddering at the image of he kids here without him.
He came to a halt under the lights of the Lynx's club neon light. Took a deep breath and walked in and down the familiar walkway. He remembered his dad giving him the beatdown whenever he came here or hung out with Uncle Victor. He took the beating and came back anyway. Till he was old enough to fight back.
"You are a bright Kid Nate, one of the smartest young people I've ever seen, look around…" he'd point at his projects and inventions in the house. "You made all of these happen. Why do you want to throw your future and your life away with Victor?" His dad would say.
Nate never has an answer for him; he was just attracted to living wild and dangerous until he met Jema.
"Halt!" A big man stopped him, twice his size and towering over him. "Who you is and who's you here for?"
"I want to see Victor."
"Who you?". Banda asked.
"None of your business. I am not leaving without seeing him now."
The big man stretched his arm to stop him as he tried to walk by. Nate grabbed his arm and twisted his fist, snatching the big man's gun, pointing it at his head, using the big man as a shield. The other bodyguards looked on almost carelessly.
The big man moved shockingly fast. An elbow to the gut stole Nate's breath, and a brutal blow to the side of his head sent him crashing to the floor. "You stupid as hell," he said, picking up the gun and pointing it at Nate.
"Enough! Can't an old man…" The voice that ended it was a ruin of what Nate remembered. The sentence trailed off, not from distraction, but for lack of air, finishing with a weary, rasping sigh. "…get some pussy in peace??"
Nate looked up. The cold authority was still there, but it was now filtered through a damaged instrument, a voice scraped raw from the inside.
"Oh, the prodigal nephew returns," he held Nate's face in his hands, scanning for injuries. "Seems he already got a welcome home feast to the skull. Pardon Rahim, he is new here."
"Ever the reliable Rahim, this is my nephew; he gets a free pass next time." He said, patting the big guy's shoulders.
The big guy nodded, "Just answer bloody questions so you don't get beaten, nephew."
Nate rolled his eyes and followed Victor, hand on his head, and found it difficult to balance.
Victor led Nate to his office, two girls lay naked, giggling while they played with themselves, "You two out, and you with the fro, I couldn't get hard cos I was distracted by that ridiculousness on your head." He looked at the other. "Janice, ah, you're always lovely. Your dad, Senator Tisbury, is starting to cause problems for me with his link to the mayor. He'd be dead if you weren't lovely; he should be glad he has an amazing daughter like you."
The girls scampered out of the office, Janice giggling while she tugged at the other girl's wig.
"Weed or a Cigar? What's the occasion? What brings you here?" Victor asked, lighting a cigar.
"The kids have been kidnapped," Nate said, scanning his uncle's face for a reaction.
"I know, I asked what brings you – "Victor cut him off.
"Wait, you know?" Nate asked, his voice sounding hopeful.
"I know your kids have been kidnapped, I know who has them, and I know the price on their heads. What I don't know is why your ungrateful ass is standing in front of me after almost 10 years."
Nate inched closer to his uncle, studying under the clearer lights. He hadn't aged much. "I need your help to get them back."
Victor took a long, exaggerated drag and blew out with a loud cough that sounded like he wanted it held back.
"The Manottis have them, a group of Italian Mafia bastards that started operation 8 years ago. Like Hydra, they came out of nowhere right after I took out Massimo, and now I have been on the defensive."
"What do they want with me and my kids? Why attack me? I thought it was an old opp, that's why I came here –"
"Mm, you think I'd let an enemy touch you even after you disrespected me?" Victor said another loud raspy cough later.
Nate looked at him, then at the ground.
"Good question, however, the Manottis have Chymera, a Giant conglomerate in twenty-six countries around the world. I told you that you need underground motion if you want to go big. The Manottis are the people who do the dirty work, annihilate competition, silence threats, and, of course, destabilize and conquer promising start-ups. This is bigger than you, this is bigger than the kids, it's the start of a downward spiral, and you're already in the game."
"How do I get my kids, Victor?" Nate asked, his hope dashed.
"This isn't one of those situations where we go in guns blazing. You play the game or at least pretend to, you pay ransoms and you learn what you can, stay afloat by playing dead, and when they least expect it, you bite.
Bile filled Nate's throat. "I have instant access to three million. Even if I liquidated all our assets, it would take forever and draw a lot of attention. I have till 9 AM tomorrow to cough up twenty million."
"The only things you cannot get within whatever deadline is time and life. I have five. That's my liquid. The rest... You need to find. This isn't a charity. You're a strategist. Go to work. My men will help you if you need them. You get your ransom money; you get your boy." Victor said, slumping into a rocking chair, looking drained, like he had just run a marathon.
"Maybe lay off the smoke, Old Man," Nate said, worried and lost.
Nate thought about everything. He couldn't stay calm; his fist shook, and his breath wouldn't stabilize. "You mentioned Senator Tisbury. He is at the IPO." Nate smirked. "But we need to move quickly."
…
Dr. Zola's Operating Room.
The lights burned too bright above her, bleaching the room into a void. Straps dug into her wrists. She hadn't agreed to them, but once the cutting started, it was too late to fight.
"What was that?" she rasped through her scorched throat.
"A little Fentanyl," Zola's scalpel glinting as he hovered above her belly. "If you were sedated, you'd never wake up. Drugged, you scream, and screaming means you're alive. Think of it as team spirit."
She sucked air through clenched teeth, every breath a war. "I didn't sign up for this."
"No one ever does," Zola replied, slicing skin with a sound like wet cloth tearing. He leaned close, his grin sharp, his tone conversational. "Besides, your options were simple: baby lives, you die. Or we get creative. Lucky for you, I'm a creative man."
Pain ripped through her, dragging another pain-filled scream out of her lungs.
"That's it," Zola muttered with perverse satisfaction. "Fight me. Don't make this boring."
The room blurred. She tried to move, but the straps held fast. Her jaw ached from grinding it shut. "Bastard," she hissed.
"I get that a lot." His hands worked steadily, efficiently, his voice unnervingly light. "Most doctors play savior or executioner. Me? I play odds. And right now, your odds are trash. So shut up, keep breathing, and we'll cheat death together."
Her vision was spotted. For a heartbeat, she felt herself slipping, then the cry of her own body pulled her back. She gasped, every muscle screaming mutiny.
Something wet and small was lifted from her. Relief crashed over her like a tide, then faltered when she realized Zola wasn't celebrating.
The baby wasn't crying.
The mother's scream broke first. "Why isn't she crying? Oh God. Give me my baby!" Her sobs convulsed her body against the straps. "She's dead, oh God, she's dead—"
"Shut it." Zola's voice cracked like a whip, cold and sharp. He leaned over the infant, working quickly. A suction tube cleared the mouth, his palm stroked tiny ribs, and the air was filled with the sharp scent of antiseptic and blood. Still silence.
Her sobbing turned feral. "Please, please let me see her."
"You'll see her when I'm done, not before." Zola pinched the baby's chest between two fingers and gave a firm flick. "Come on, you little soldier. Prove me wrong."
A weak mewl slipped into the air… thin, rasping, but real. Zola exhaled like he'd just won a bet. "There it is. Music to my ears. Ugly music, but music."
The mother sagged, sobs dissolving into shaky relief. "She's alive?"
"For now," he said, wrapping the tiny body in heated cloth. "Premature, underweight, and stubborn. She'll need machines if she wants to keep breathing, but she's got a voice. That's more than most."
"Let me hold her," she whispered.
Zola's grin was all teeth. "You want to kill her in her first ten minutes? No. You get her when she can survive your arms." He tucked the baby into a neonatal unit he'd dragged into the corner, monitors crackling to life. "Focus on surviving yourself."
He got back to treat and stitch and then froze, scalpel hovering, eyes narrowing at something deeper inside her.
"What the hell are you hiding?" he muttered, more to himself than to her. He prodded with the tip of his glove, his usual flippancy gone, replaced by a clinical intensity that was somehow more terrifying. He hissed through his teeth. "Well, well. Look at that."
Her heart lurched. "What?"
"A growth." His grin receded. "Tumor. Cancer."
The word landed heavier than the straps. She shook her head weakly, tears springing.
"No."
"Yes…" Zola cut in, tone flat. "…it's been here a while. Ugly thing strangling your insides. But here is the good part." He pressed again, watching the strange tissue resist. "It acted like a plug. Its density, its network of vessels saved you from bleeding out."
Her laugh came out broken, a sob dragged sideways. "You're telling me… cancer saved my life?"
"Life's a twisted little joke, isn't it?" Zola leaned closer, his gaze finally lifting from the surgical field to meet her terrified eyes. For the first time, his look was not one of manic genius, but of a stark, profound understanding. "Sometimes the enemy soldiers hold the line against a greater threat. But they are still the enemy." He leaned closer, his voice softening to a near whisper. "It will kill you later. You have months. Less, if you're unlucky."
Her chest rose in shallow bursts. She wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to live long enough to do it. "Is there anything…?" she whispered.
For a long moment, he was silent. Then he asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, "The child you lost... How far along?"
The question was so intimate, so unexpected, it stole the air from her lungs. "Twenty weeks," she breathed, the old grief a fresh wound.
Zola just nodded, as if she'd confirmed everything. "This is why. It's been growing for a long time. Stealing life to make life. A cruel reality." He didn't smirk. He looked… resigned. "The uterus must come out. It would buy you two years at most. It is not a choice."
The scream tore through her raw throat. Every timbre oozing pain and a burden no one should have to carry. The pain of what she lost, the thought of losing all her children in one night, the weight of never having kids again, smothered her.
Her mind drifted to Nate. 'He wouldn't let me down.' She allowed that thought to give her hope.
Two years with the love of her and her kids was a cruel curse.
"I was supposed to die today. Cut it."
Zola didn't flinch. "Good sound. Keep screaming. Reminds me you're still mine to work with." Clamp. Slice. Stitch. His hands moved like machinery, cold and relentless.
She struggled feebly, her voice breaking. "Be gentle, you monster."
"Monsters save lives, too," Zola said. Don't forget that when you hate me later."
Time collapsed into pain. Then suddenly, silence. The scalpel clattered onto a tray. He leaned back, soaked gloves dripping red. His grin returned, wolfish.
"You'll live," he said, as if it were the punchline of some private joke.
Her body sagged against the restraints, sobs shaking her ribs.
Zola leaned close, voice low enough for her alone. "Two years. Maybe less. Don't waste them being polite. Be a bitch."
"What do you mean, another child?" Zola asked, not expecting a response.
"I was 20 in law school," She breathed, "and it was a miscarriage."
Her eyes fluttered, heavy with pain, with the weight of everything stolen and everything left. She wanted to curse him. She wanted to thank him.
Instead, she whispered the only thing she could manage, voice like splintered glass. "I'll outlive your odds."
Zola smirked. "Now that's the spirit."
"Don't tell my husband."
"About the miscarriage or the cancer?"
"Neither of them."