The Betrayed Mafia Wife Takes Bloody Revenge Chapter 06
Do Not Resuscitate
Rafe survived the first surgery.
Barely.
I spent four hours outside the ICU.
Members of the Cole family came and went.
Lawyers.
Security.
Business partners.
Men who used to nod at me without remembering my name.
Now every one of them called me Mrs. Cole.
The doctor finally came out just before sunrise.
He looked exhausted.
“Mrs. Cole?”
I stood.
“He’s stable.”
My knees almost buckled.
The doctor continued.
“But the damage is severe.”
“One kidney is gone.”
“His liver was badly injured.”
“He suffered prolonged blood loss before EMS reached him.”
“There may be neurological damage.”
I stared through the glass at Rafe.
Machines breathed around him.
His face was almost colorless.
“Will he wake up?”
“We don’t know.”
“When?”
“We don’t know.”
“What happens if he does?”
The doctor hesitated.
“He may require permanent care.”
“Dialysis is possible.”
“Another surgery may be necessary.”
“His quality of life could be extremely limited.”
A lawyer arrived before noon.
Not mine.
Rafe’s.
Thomas Vale.
He had handled every Cole contract for fifteen years.
He sat beside me in the consultation room.
“Elena.”
I looked up.
“Rafe has an advance directive.”
I had forgotten.
We signed them after his father died.
No prolonged extraordinary life support if doctors determined meaningful recovery was unlikely.
At the time, Rafe had laughed.
“If I can’t run my own life, pull the damn plug.”
He had kissed me afterward.
“Promise?”
I had promised.
Now Thomas slid the paper toward me.
My signature sat beneath Rafe’s.
I read it three times.
The doctor returned.
“We can continue aggressive intervention.”
“There is another procedure we can attempt if his condition declines.”
“But based on the current damage, it may prolong the process without changing the outcome.”
Thomas said nothing.
Neither did I.
My hand rested over Rafe’s signature.
He had once told me I would never survive without him.
Now everyone was waiting for me to decide how long he would survive.
I closed my eyes.
“Honor his directive.”
The doctor nodded slowly.
“We’ll continue comfort care and supportive treatment.”
“No extraordinary resuscitative measures if he arrests.”
My voice sounded very far away.
“Yes.”
The next night, Rafe’s heart stopped.
The team did exactly what his directive required.
No heroic intervention.
No endless machines.
No miracle.
At 2:17 a.m., my husband died.
I stood beside the bed after everyone left.
His hand was cold.
The indentation from his wedding ring was still visible.
He had stopped wearing the ring six months ago.
“It looks stupid,” he had said.
“I know I’m married. Isn’t that enough?”
Vivian later told me he had lost it in her apartment.
I touched the pale line on his finger.
“You should’ve come home with me.”
My voice broke.
“If you had listened once, Rafe…”
I stopped.
There was no point.
For the first time in seven years, he could no longer interrupt me.
I removed my own ring.
Placed it beside his hand.
And walked out.