Chapter 3 - The Price of Oxygen
At seven forty-five that morning, Maya Santos walked into the penthouse carrying her standard cleaning tote. She looked pale, dark shadows ringed beneath her eyes, her posture stiff with the exhausting burden of unresolved panic. She believed the penthouse was empty; Dante usually left for his midtown office by seven.
She walked into the kitchen, set her bag down, and pulled a small glass bottle from her purse. It was an empty glass vial that had contained her daughter's previous month's dosage—a small token she kept with her to remind herself why she endured eighty-hour work weeks. She pressed it against her lips, whispering softly to herself in the quiet room.
“Baby, I have milk for you... I have medicine coming... just hold on until Friday...”
“It won't need to wait until Friday.”
Maya spun around, dropping the small bottle. It rolled across the polished timber floor, bumping softly against the toe of Dante Ferraro’s hand-made leather shoe.
Dante stood in the doorway of the dining room. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket, only his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. In his hand, he held a black leather folder.
“Mr. Ferraro,” Maya gasped, her hands immediately flying to her apron, her face flushing deep crimson with mortification. “I’m... I’m so sorry. I thought you had left. I didn't mean to make noise—”
“Stop apologizing,” Dante said. His tone was firm, but for the first time since she had worked for him, it lacked the razor-thin chill of an employer addressing staff.
He walked over, picked up the small glass vial from the floor, and placed it back into her hand. His fingers briefly brushed hers; they were ice-cold, while hers were warm and trembling.
“You don't owe $2,800 to St. Jude’s Clinic,” Dante said directly.
Maya blinked, confusion clouding her eyes. “What? How do you... did you hear me yesterday?”
“It doesn't matter what I heard,” Dante replied, opening the leather folder on the kitchen island. Inside were three documents bearing official blue seals and notary stamps. “What matters is that the clinic was overcharging you for stolen inventory diverted through my piers. The debt is canceled. All medical bills for your daughter, past, present, and future, have been absorbed by the Ferraro Foundation.”
Maya stood frozen. The kitchen was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. She looked from the papers to Dante’s face, searching for a catch, a hidden cruelty, or the terrible punchline of a rich man’s joke.
“I... I don't understand,” she stammered, tears suddenly brimming in her dark eyes. “Why would you do this? I’m just... I clean your floors.”
“You clean my floors, and you do it without asking for favors,” Dante said, his expression remaining steadfast and resolute. “In my world, people ask for favors every ten minutes for things they haven't earned. You work, you protect your child, and you suffer in silence because you think nobody is watching. I am watching.”
He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and laid them next to the folder.
“There is a car waiting downstairs. Franco is driving us to the hospital right now. We are collecting your daughter's full six-month treatment batch directly from crate four-B, and then we are having a very brief conversation with Dr. Vance about his billing practices.”
Maya looked at the keys, then at Dante. A tear spilled over her lashes, tracing a path down her cheek, but she did not sob this time. The crushing, suffocating weight that had rested on her chest for eighteen months suddenly dissolved, leaving behind a staggering, breathless relief.
May you like
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Thank you, Mr. Ferraro.”
“Call me Dante,” he said, turning toward the hallway. “And get your coat. We have a clinic to audit.”
