Black Single Mom’s Son Shares Rare Blood Disease with Mafia Boss’s Dying Child—“Move In Tonight”!!!

Описание: The call came at 2:47 AM.
Maya Richardson jerked awake, heart already racing before her brain fully processed the shrill ringtone cutting through the darkness of her tiny bedroom. She fumbled for her phone, squinting at the too-bright screen.
Atlanta Children's Hospital.
Her stomach dropped to her feet.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked with sleep and instant terror.
"Ms. Richardson? This is Dr. Patel from the Pediatric Hematology unit. I'm sorry to call so late, but we need you to come in immediately. It's Micah."
Maya was already out of bed, yanking on yesterday's jeans with one hand. "What happened? Is he—"
"He's stable for now, but his platelet count has dropped critically. We're starting an emergency transfusion, but Ms. Richardson..." Dr. Patel's voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. "We need to have a serious conversation about next steps. How soon can you be here?"
"Twenty minutes," Maya said, though she had no idea how she'd manage that. No car, buses didn't run this route at 3 AM, and an Uber would cost money she didn't have. "I'll be there."
She hung up and stood in her dark apartment, hands shaking so badly she had to try three times to button her jeans. Through the thin wall, she could hear Mrs. Chen's television murmuring in Cantonese. At least someone was awake.
Micah. Her baby. Her whole world.
Seven years old and he'd spent more nights in a hospital than in his own bed. Von Willebrand Disease, Type 3—the rarest, most severe form of a rare bleeding disorder that most people had never heard of. His blood couldn't clot properly. A nosebleed could become life-threatening. A bruise could turn into internal hemorrhaging. A normal childhood was impossible when your son's body was constantly betraying him.
And now his platelets were crashing again.
Maya grabbed her purse, her keys, and was halfway to the door when her phone rang again. Different number. Local, but not one she recognized.
She almost didn't answer. But something made her swipe to accept.
"Ms. Richardson." The voice was male, accented—Korean, maybe?—and carried an authority that made her spine straighten instinctively. "My name is Kang Min-jun. You don't know me, but I know about your son. And I believe we need to talk. Tonight."
Every maternal instinct screamed danger.
"I don't know who you are or how you got this number, but my son is in the hospital right now and I'm hanging up—"
"Your son has Von Willebrand Disease, Type 3," the man interrupted, and Maya froze. "Diagnosed at fourteen months. He's been hospitalized thirty-seven times in six years. His last major bleed was six weeks ago when he fell at school. You're currently four months behind on rent, you work two jobs, and your insurance company just denied coverage for the specialized clotting factor he needs."
Maya's blood turned to ice. "Who the hell are you? And how do you—"
"My daughter has the same disease," he said quietly, and suddenly his voice wasn't authoritative anymore. It was broken. "Na-ri. She's six. And three hours ago, she started bleeding internally. The doctors say she has maybe forty-eight hours without a bone marrow transplant."
Maya's mind reeled. "I'm sorry, but what does that have to—"
"Von Willebrand Type 3 is genetic, Ms. Richardson. Autosomal recessive. Both parents have to be carriers. The odds of two unrelated children in the same city having it are..." He paused. "Less than one in 50,000. But the odds of two children having it and being compatible bone marrow matches? Even rarer. Unless they share genetic markers."
Understanding hit Maya like a freight train. "No."
"I had my people run the hospital records. Your son and my daughter have a 92% genetic compatibility. They share the same rare blood type, the same HLA markers. Ms. Richardson, your son is the only potential match my daughter has. And based on what my doctors tell me, my daughter is the only potential match your son has."
"That's not—you can't just—" Maya's voice was shaking. "You had someone access my son's medical records? That's illegal. That's—"
"I'm aware." No apology in his tone. "And right now, I don't care. I care that my daughter is dying. And I care that your son is in crisis. And I care that we can help each other if you let me."