The Mafia's Undoing-Chapter 164: Critical Condition

We arrived at the emergency entrance of Manhattan Presbyterian Hospital, sirens wailing, red lights flashing, with chaos everywhere.

We were exposed and vulnerable; every Charles Sterling student in the city could be watching us, but none of that mattered. Only Rose matters to us right now.

Dr. Patel met us at the entrance. She was already alerted and ready.

"Katherine, we need to get you upstairs. Now."

I was being wheeled through the corridor with Tony beside me, holding my hand.

"Is she okay? Is Rose okay?"

"We’re going to find out." Dr. Patel answered briskly.

At the maternity ward, I was placed on emergency monitoring.

Wires were attached to my stomach, a fetal heart monitor beeping, the beeping was too slow.

Dr. Patel was studying the screen, her face serious.

"Fetal heart rate is dangerously low and dropping."

"What does that mean?"

"It means Rose isn’t getting enough oxygen. The placenta is failing."

My blood ran cold. "Failing?"

"Placental insufficiency. It’s not providing adequate nutrients or oxygen. We need to deliver. Now."

"But it’s too early-"

"At 24 weeks, she’s viable. Extremely premature, but viable."

Tony was beside me. "What are her chances?"

Dr. Patel hesitated. It’s never a good thing when doctors hesitate.

"At 24 weeks? 50-70% survival rate, but complications are likely. The lungs aren’t fully developed, there is a risk of brain bleeding, infections, and a long NICU stay."

Fifty to seventy percent. My daughter has a 30-50% chance of dying.

"What if we wait by giving her more time to develop?"

"We can try stabilizing you. Give her a few more days or weeks, but Katherine, if the placenta continues failing, we lose her, and she suffocates in utero."

"So what do we do?"

"That’s your decision. We can try to buy time, or we can deliver now and give her a fighting chance in the NICU."

I couldn’t decide or think as I was paralyzed with fear.

Tony spoke. "What gives Rose the best chance?"

Dr. Patel was honest. "Honestly? It’s a gamble either way. Deliver too early, she’s not developed enough. Wait too long, she doesn’t get enough oxygen and suffers brain damage or dies."

I was already crying. "I can’t make this decision. I just can’t-"

Tony’s hand squeezed into mine. "Katherine. What do you want to do?"

"Deliver." The word came out before I think. "I won’t risk losing her by waiting. Deliver her. Now."

Everything moved fast after that.

The prep for emergency C-section, consent forms, and anesthesia consult.

Tony was suited up in surgical scrubs, a cap, and a mask, and was allowed in the OR.

"I’m here. I’m not leaving you. Either of you." He said and kissed my forehead.

I was wheeled into the operating room, where bright lights shone.

The anesthesiologist was an older woman who appeared calm and kind.

"You’ll feel a pinch, then numbness."

The epidural needle came into my spine, but I barely felt it. I was too terrified to notice any pain.

The numbness began spreading, and I couldn’t feel my legs or my abdomen.

"Can you feel this?" Dr. Patel asked, touching my stomach.

"No."

"Good. We’re starting."

The screen was raised so I couldn’t see the incision. Thank God.

Tony was beside me and holding my hand.

"You’ll feel pressure," Dr. Patel said. "It’s a slight tugging, but no pain."

She’s right. There was pressure and a strange sensation of pulling.

"Is my baby okay?"

"Almost there. Just a few more minutes."

Those were the longest minutes of my life.

Then I felt a pulling sensation, stronger and final.

Everywhere was silent.

No crying sound.

My heart stopped. "Why isn’t she crying?"

The NICU team immediately swarmed in. She was a tiny bundle. So small I barely saw her.

"She’s very small," someone said. "1 pound 8 ounces."

1 pound 8 ounces. That was barely bigger than a soda can.

Then, finally - a cry. It was weak and barely audible, but there.

"She’s breathing," the NICU doctor said. "That’s very good."

I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. "Can I see her? Can I hold her?"

"Not yet. She needs immediate support - oxygen and warmth. We’re taking her to the NICU now."

I needed a glimpse. Just one glimpse. I took a look and saw she was tiny, red, fragile, her eyes closed and alien-looking.

My daughter.

Then she was gone, whisked away by the team.

"Where are they taking her?"

"NICU. She needs intensive monitoring. We’ll keep you updated."

At the recovery room. I was being stitched up but couldn’t feel anything.

I was numb in every sense, and Rose wasn’t with me. She was fighting for her life somewhere in this hospital.

I felt empty and hollow that I couldn’t be with her.

Tony was beside me, still in surgical scrubs. "She’s a fighter, just like her mother."

"What if she doesn’t make it?"

"She will. She has to."

But his voice wavered, indicating he wasn’t certain either.

Luca appeared to give an update on security.

"The hospital is exposed. We’ve got teams positioned throughout the building, but-"

"I don’t care," I said in a flat voice. "Let them come. All I care about is Rose."

Tony agreed. "Security is secondary. Rose comes first."

Luca looked worried. "If Charles’s students know you’re here-"

"Then we deal with it," Tony said firmly. "But we’re not leaving. Not until Rose is stable and when she can be moved safely."

"Understood," Luca responded and left.

Two hours later, we were cleared to visit the NICU.

I was in a wheelchair since I couldn’t walk, as I was still recovering from surgery.

Tony was pushing the wheelchair, guiding me through corridors, following the signs to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

They had strict protocols - scrubbing in, gowning up, no jewelry, and no perfume.

We entered through double doors into the NICU.

There were constant beeping sounds with monitors everywhere, incubators, and tiny babies.

And there, we saw our Rose. She was in the corner incubator with her name on it.

ROSE MARVIN. Born at 24 weeks. 1 lb 8 oz.

There were so many wires and so many tubes.

A breathing tube, IV lines, heart monitor, and oxygen saturation monitor.

She was naked except for a tiny diaper, under a heat lamp with her eyes still fused shut.

"Can I touch her?" I asked the nurse.

"Through the porthole, but very gently. She’s extremely delicate."

I reached through. My finger touches her hand.

She was so tiny, her fingers wrapped around mine in a firm grip.

"She’s holding on," I whispered.

The nurse smiles with tears in her eyes. "She knows her mom."

I was sobbing. "Hi, baby girl. Mommy’s here. You’re so strong. Keep fighting."

Meeting with the neonatologist. Dr. Amy Mèng is an Asian woman in her late thirties.

"Rose is doing better than expected for 24 weeks. She’s breathing with ventilator support. Her heart rate is stabilizing."

"What are her chances?"

Dr. Mèng was honest. "The next 72 hours are critical. If she survives that, her chances improve significantly. We’re watching for complications - brain bleeding, infections, and respiratory distress syndrome."

"What about long-term?"

"It’s too early to tell. Premature babies this early often have complications. It could be vision problems from oxygen exposure, hearing loss, or developmental delays, but some do perfectly fine. Every baby is different."

"So we just wait."

"We wait, we monitor, we hope, and we give her the best care possible."

Tony and I were sitting beside Rose’s incubator side by side.

It was the first time in weeks that we were not fighting, arguing, or pushing each other away.

"I’m sorry," I whispered. "For everything, for trying to leave and for thinking I could protect her by taking her away from you."

"Don’t. Rose is what matters now. We can deal with everything else later."

"If she survives, I’m not leaving. She needs both of us."

"When she survives," Tony corrects gently. "Not if, but when."

I wanted to believe him.

Wanted to believe our daughter would make it through this.

But she’s so small and fragile. And the odds were terrifying.

Forty-eight hours later, Rose’s condition was worsening.

We heard alarm sounds, and the Nurses rushed in with Dr. Mèng examining.

"What’s wrong?" I panicked. "What’s happening?"

"Her oxygen levels are dropping. Her heart rate is erratic, and her abdomen is distended."

"What does that mean?"

Dr. Mèng’s face was grave. "She’s developed NEC, which is Necrotizing enterocolitis. Her intestines are inflamed, and we’re seeing signs of dying tissue."

"What does that mean?" Tony asked.

"We need emergency surgery to remove the damaged portions of the intestine. It’s very risky, especially for a baby this small, but without surgery, she’ll die."

I was breaking. "She’s two days old. How can she survive surgery?"

"She’s a fighter, Katherine. But I need you to understand, the survival rate for NEC surgery in micro-preemies is about 50%."

"So she has a 50% chance of dying?"

"Or a 50% chance of living. It’s your choice how you frame it."

I looked at Tony, both of us terrified and helpless.

Our daughter, barely two days old, is going into life-threatening surgery.

"Do it," I said, my voice breaking. "Whatever it takes. Please, save her."

"We’ll do everything we can."

The surgical team assembled, and Rose was being prepared.

I kissed my finger and touched it to her incubator. "Fight, baby girl. Please fight."

They wheel her away to the OR.

Tony and I were left behind.

In the NICU waiting room.

Waiting, praying, and hoping.

Not knowing if our daughter will survive.