Chapter Two: The Ban
The next morning, I went to Maligan Freight Company.
A sign was posted on the iron gate: "Dominique Santoro is prohibited from entering."
It was written in black and white, and even bore the company's official seal.
I stood at the door, looking at those words, and remembered my first day at work three years ago. Joe patted me on the shoulder and said, "Dom, do a good job. My company needs a reliable driver like you." Back then, I thought that as long as I wanted, I could be an ordinary person for the rest of my life.
I called Joe.
“I’m sorry…” he cried again, “They threatened to kidnap my son… My son is only five years old…”
"I see."
hang up.
Behind him, workers were whispering: "I heard that guy offended the O'Brien family..." "Serves him right, a lousy driver dares to mess with a local tyrant..." "I bet he won't live more than a week..."
I turned around and looked at them.
The three drivers were all old acquaintances. We'd had lunch together, cursed at our boss together, and boasted together at the docks. But now, they looked at me like I was a pile of trash.
I didn't say anything, and turned to leave.
On my way back to the apartment, I passed seven shops. They used to greet me: "Dom, delivering today?" or "Dom, want to come in for a coffee?"
Today, all the shops were closed. The owner of one coffee shop saw me through the glass window, his expression changed, and he immediately pulled down the shutter.
The whole street was like it was dead.
Downstairs at the apartment building, my landlady, Mrs. O'Malley, stood at the door, carrying my luggage bag, her eyes red and swollen.
“Dom…” Her lips trembled, tears streaming down her face, “This morning someone came and threatened me… saying that if I continued to rent to you, they would burn my house down… I’m just an old woman… I really can’t afford to mess with them…”
"It's not your fault, madam."
I took the duffel bag. It was heavy; she packed all my things inside, even my toothbrush.
“Dom, you’re a good person,” she said, taking my hand, “but in this world, good people don’t always get rewarded.”
"You will be rewarded, my wife."
I turned to leave, and heard her crying behind me.
My phone rang.
“Dom…” Maria’s voice was weak, like a candle flame in the wind, “We were kicked out too… The landlord said the O’Brien family threatened him… We’re at the Fifth Street fast food restaurant now… My heart is hurting again… I’ve run out of medicine… The pharmacy won’t sell us any more…”
"wait for me."
Twenty minutes later, I pushed open the door of the fast food restaurant.
This shop was located in a slum; the walls were covered in graffiti, the floor was greasy, and the air reeked of cheap coffee and fried chicken. A few homeless people huddled in a corner, watching me warily.
Maria leaned back in her chair, her face as pale as paper, her lips purple, and her whole body trembling violently. She clutched her chest, each breath seeming like an immense ordeal.
Bella knelt beside her, holding her hand, tears streaming down her face.
"sister in law."
“Dom…” Maria saw me, her eyes flashing with guilt, “It’s all our fault that you’ve been dragged into this…”
"Don't talk nonsense."
I knelt down and checked her pulse. It was weak and irregular. She needed to be hospitalized immediately; she needed oxygen, medication, and a doctor.
But no hospital in all of Brooklyn dared to admit her.
Just then, the door of the fast food restaurant was kicked open.
Connor swaggered in with seven or eight thugs. He was dressed in Armani, wearing a gold watch, and had a cigar in his mouth, looking every bit the spoiled brat.
The homeless people in the store were so frightened that they hid in the corner, and some even crawled under the table.
When Connor saw me, a sinister smile spread across his face: "Oh, our hero? What's wrong? You were so arrogant yesterday, and now you're a stray dog?"
He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and threw it at my feet: "Pick it up, pick it up like a dog, then kneel down and lick my shoes, and I'll let the mother and daughter go."
Banknotes were scattered all over the ground, the largest denomination being twenty dollars.
I looked down at the banknotes.
bend over.
Connor laughed loudly: "Hahaha! See that? This is the one who's going against me—"
The moment my fingers touched the banknotes, he lifted his foot and stomped hard on my hand. The sole of his shoe ground against the back of my hand, making the bones creak.
“Wait a minute,” Connor looked down at me, “Your dead brother, didn’t he kneel down and beg for mercy like this back then? Marco, right? I heard he died a horrible death, his brains splattered all over the place, hahaha!”
boom.
I looked up, grabbed his ankle with one hand, and twisted it hard.
Click.
The bone is broken.
Connor screamed and fell to the ground, rolling around like a snake whose tail had been stepped on. He clutched his ankle, his face contorted in agony, snot and tears streaming down his face.
“You can insult me,” I stood up, “but you shouldn’t insult Marco.”
"Attack!" Connor screamed, his voice distorted. "Beat them to death! I'll take responsibility if they die!"
Seven or eight thugs rushed up.
I didn't stand still and take the beating—I guided them.
The first blow was a baseball bat, sweeping across the back of my head. I ducked, and the bat slammed into my right shoulder, a sharp pain shooting through my scapula. But instead of backing away, I took a half-step forward, using my body to block the gap in front of Maria. The second blow came from the left, and I raised my left arm to catch it, my forearm bone cracking. But at the same time, I grabbed the hot coffee from the table with my right hand and splashed it at the third person's face. He screamed, clutching his eyes, and knocked over the round table behind him.
Tables and chairs were overturned, tripping the thugs and slowing them down. I took the opportunity to pull Maria's chair to the corner, so that her back was against the wall—that way I only needed to protect the front 180 degrees.
The fourth man stabbed me in the lower back with an iron pipe. I dodged to the side, and the pipe pierced the glass door of the refrigerator behind me. The glass shattered, and shards cut my face and hands, but I took the opportunity to grab his pipe and pull him into my arms. He staggered and lunged at me, and I bumped my forehead into his nose—blood splattered out, and he covered his nose and backed away.
The fifth and sixth people rushed in from the left and right at the same time. I grabbed the plate and smashed it against the left side of his face, while simultaneously sweeping my right leg at his right knee. The edge of the plate sliced through the left person's ear, and the right person's knee dislocated, causing him to fall to the ground screaming in agony.
The seventh man—the strongest—swung a folding chair at me. I couldn't dodge; Maria was right behind me. I raised my arms to protect my head and face, and the chair slammed into my forearm, bending the metal tubes. I could feel my ulna groaning, but the bone wasn't broken. In the instant he folded the chair, I kicked him in the groin—not the groin, but the femoral head—making him limp.
After I finished, I retreated to Maria's side and shielded her in the corner.
I was hit at least seven times—on my right shoulder, left arm, back, right rib, left calf, the back of my right hand, and forehead. Blood flowed down my forehead, blurring my left eye, and my right rib ached with every breath.
But Maria had none of those things.
Connor stood at a distance, his face turning pale: "Are you made of iron?"
I didn't answer. I just used my still-functioning left hand to wipe the blood from my eyelids and stared at the three people who were still standing.
They dared not go.
"stop!"
Sheriff Burke led his men in and stormed in.
"Dom, someone called the police saying you're causing trouble. Come with me."
He grabbed my arm and twisted it hard.
Click.
A fractured wrist bone.
I didn't say anything. Pain shot through my wrist and up to my shoulder like an electric current, and cold sweat broke out on my forehead, but I didn't utter a sound.
Connor scrambled to his feet, hopping on one leg, his face contorted in pain: "Sheriff, this guy assaulted a police officer!"
“Yes, we all saw it!” the thugs echoed.
Burke pulled out handcuffs and was about to put them on my wrists.
Just then, my phone rang.
“Mr. Dom… St. Vincent’s Hospital called… Ms. Maria has suffered a heart attack… her condition is critical… but… the hospital said the O’Brien family has instructed… they cannot admit patients related to you…”
My expression changed instantly.
Turning to look at Maria—she was slumped in her chair, her lips black, gasping for breath, her whole body convulsing, and her eyes rolling back.
"sister in law!"
I shook off Burke and rushed over to pick her up.
Call an ambulance!
The boss dialed 911.
"I'm sorry, but according to the O'Brien family's instructions, we cannot drive."
The call ended.
I grabbed Maria and rushed out the door.
Connor laughed wildly behind him: "Dom, in Brooklyn, neither of you, mother and daughter, will survive!"
I carried Maria and rushed into the emergency room of St. Vincent's Hospital.
Her lips had turned purplish-black, her pupils were dilated, and her pulse was barely perceptible. I assessed in three seconds: heart failure; she could only hold on for four to five minutes at most.
"Doctor! Emergency! Warning signs of impending cardiac arrest!"
Several nurses ran over, but stopped when they saw me. Dean Harrison came out of his office with a formulaic apology on his face.
“Mr. Dom, I’m sorry, but the O’Brien family’s instructions—”
“She has four more minutes to live.” I interrupted him, my voice eerily calm. “Refusing to treat her is manslaughter. The O’Brien family can’t keep your license.”
Harrison's expression changed slightly, but he still shook his head: "I can't help it..."
Bella suddenly rushed out from behind me. She didn't cry, but ran straight to the nurses' station, grabbed the employee directory on the wall, and flipped to the last page—where the spare storage place for the operating room access cards was located.
"Uncle Dom! The operating room is on the fourth floor. The access card is with the head nurse on duty. Her name is Margaret. She's on the night shift today. Her location is... the pharmacy on the third floor!"
I glanced at Bella. This girl, during those few minutes when her mother was turned away, didn't break down, but instead memorized every detail.
There are three minutes left.
I put Maria on the ambulance and pushed it to the elevator. Harrison stopped me: "You can't—"
I grabbed his neck with my left hand and pinned him against the wall, while my right hand pulled out an adrenaline syringe and a syringe from the nurses' station.
“Listen,” I whispered in his ear, “I’m going to the fourth floor for surgery now. Have Margaret deliver the access card to the operating room. If my sister-in-law dies, I’ll bury you and the O’Brien family together.”
He let go. Harrison collapsed to the ground.
The elevator arrived. I pushed the cart inside, and Bella followed.
"Go to the pharmacy on the third floor, find Margaret, and get the card. Then go to the lobby on the first floor, stand guard at the door, and call me if anyone comes in."
"clear."
The elevator reached the third floor, and Bella ran out. I continued up to the fourth floor.
There are two minutes left.
I wheeled Maria into the operating room and began preparing the emergency equipment. A ventilator, a defibrillator, a chest pack—I had received battlefield first aid training in the military and in my family, but now I needed a real doctor.
I took out my phone and dialed Tony's number.
"boss!"
“Tony, I need you. Bring everyone you can to St. Vincent’s Hospital.”
"yes!"
"Wait." I took a deep breath. "Tell me, what will be the price for using our old troops now?"
Tony paused for a second.
“Boss, your ‘three-year retirement agreement’ was signed with the committee. There are still 72 hours left before the agreement expires. Activating the family network ahead of time will be considered a breach of contract. The committee’s cleaners will be watching you. Moreover, we only have seven core members left that we can mobilize immediately—the others will need at least two hours to get in place.”
“Seven people are enough. Let them come,” I said. “Also, tell the old man that I will personally explain the agreement to the committee.”
"Understood. How quickly will it arrive?"
I did the math: Tony is in Queens, and it would take at least twenty minutes for him to gather seven people, equip them, and drive over.
Maria has less than two minutes left.
"I can't wait for you. I'll handle it myself first."
Hang up the phone.
I turned around and started rummaging through the operating room. Anesthesia, scalpels, hemostatic forceps, sutures—everything was there, but I'm not a surgeon.
I need someone who dares to take action.
I walked down the corridor and saw a name on the duty roster—Dr. James, who was making rounds on the fifth floor tonight. I rushed up to the fifth floor and found him at the end of the corridor.
"You, come with me."
James was dragged into the operating room by me. When he saw Maria on the bed, his face turned pale: "I...I'm not a cardiothoracic surgeon..."
“You’re a doctor,” I said, shoving the scalpel into his hand. “Now, you’re the one to perform this surgery. I’ll make sure you survive it.”
My hands are shaking.
It's not because of fear, it's because of time.
James looked at me, then at Maria on the bed, and gritted his teeth: "I need an anesthesiologist, a nurse, and a cardiopulmonary bypass machine—"
No. It's just you and me.
Just then, my phone vibrated.
A text message from an unknown number:
"Chairman Santoro, welcome back to Brooklyn. You have 72 hours. The committee cleaners are on their way. Best of luck to your sister-in-law. —PO"
Patrick O'Brien.
He knows who I am. He's known all along.
He's been waiting for me to break the rules.
I deleted the text message, put my phone back in my pocket, and looked at James: "Let's do it."
James took a deep breath and picked up the scalpel.
Hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor—Bella was running in with her access card, followed by Head Nurse Margaret.
"Uncle Dom! We got the card! Lady Margaret is willing to help!"
Upon seeing the scene in the operating room, Margaret didn't waste any words. She washed her hands and put on her surgical gown: "I'll be the circulating nurse. Young man, you'll be the surgeon, and I'll assist you."
There are 30 seconds left.
Maria's heart monitor began to emit a sharp alarm—her heart rate dropped to thirty beats per minute, and the waveform became almost a straight line.
"Adrenaline, IV," James said.
Margaret had already taken her medication.
In the operating room, only the beeping of the instruments and James's instructions could be heard.
I stood at the doorway, looking out the window.
In the Brooklyn night sky, seven black sedans were approaching from different directions. And another group—the committee's scavengers—was also on their way.
This should have been just another ordinary night in the past three years.
But now, everything is irreversible.
