Chapter 2
“So now I own yours.”
For three seconds, I said nothing.
Not because I was frightened.
I was.
But fear had never been particularly useful to me.
I looked at Dante Rossi.
Then at the key.
Then back at him.
He was sitting in a dark leather chair beside the window, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt open at the collar. Three weeks earlier, I had seen his chest open beneath surgical lights.
Now he looked irritatingly alive.
Pale.
Thinner.
His left arm rested carefully against his side, and I could tell from the angle of his shoulder that he was still protecting the repair.
Good.
At least one of my instructions had survived whatever insanity had brought me here.
I sat up.
My head immediately protested.
“What did you give me?”
Dante’s expression changed.
“Nothing.”
“Then why don’t I remember coming here?”
“You were asleep.”
“I don’t sleep through kidnappings.”
“You weren’t kidnapped.”
I looked around the locked bedroom.
“Interesting opening argument.”
His eyes flicked toward the door.
“It isn’t locked.”
I stared at him.
Then I got out of bed.
Too quickly.
The room tilted.
Dante moved.
“Don’t.”
I lifted one finger.
“If you touch me, I will reopen your incision with medical precision.”
He stopped.
“Noted.”
I crossed the room.
Turned the handle.
The door opened.
I looked into a quiet hallway.
No armed guard.
No chain.
No lock.
I turned back.
“That improves your legal position by approximately four percent.”
“Generous.”
“How did I get here?”
“You collapsed.”
“Where?”
“Hospital parking garage.”
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
I searched my memory.
A thirty-hour shift.
Coffee.
A meeting with administration.
Walking toward my car.
Then nothing.
“You brought me here.”
“Yes.”
“Why not take me to the emergency department?”
“You had just left it.”
“That isn’t how medicine works.”
“You were examined.”
My anger sharpened.
“By whom?”
“Dr. Miriam Hale.”
I knew the name.
Everyone in Chicago medicine knew it.
Miriam Hale had been chief of internal medicine at Northwestern for fifteen years before retiring.
“She examined me here?”
“Yes.”
“Without my consent?”
“She examined you after you regained consciousness briefly and agreed.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were severely exhausted.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“No.”
“Where is my phone?”
“Table.”
I found it beside the bed.
Fully charged.
Twenty-three missed calls.
Sixteen from Evan.
Four from my mother.
Three from an unknown number.
I looked at Dante.
“Why am I wearing pajamas?”
His composure cracked.
Only slightly.
“Dr. Hale called a nurse.”
“A nurse changed my clothes?”
“Yes.”
“Which nurse?”
“Her granddaughter.”
“That is somehow weirder.”
“I didn’t participate.”
“I wasn’t going to accuse you until you volunteered that.”
Dante looked toward the window.
For the first time, the feared Dante Rossi appeared uncomfortable.
Good.
I preferred him that way.
I picked up the key.
“What is this?”
“Front door.”
I stared.
“The key to your house?”
“Yes.”
“You put your front-door key beside a woman who woke up believing she’d been kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
“And then said you owned my life.”
“That was badly phrased.”
I laughed.
Once.
“You think?”
His mouth tightened.
“I had rehearsed something else.”
That caught me.
“You rehearsed?”
“No.”
“You just said you did.”
“I regret saying it.”
“Excellent. We’re making progress.”
I held up the key.
“What were you trying to say?”
Dante stood slowly.
He was taller than I remembered.
In the operating room, bodies became anatomy.
Outside it, Dante Rossi was six-foot-two and carried himself with the controlled stillness of someone accustomed to rooms becoming quieter when he entered.
I refused to participate.
“You saved my life,” he said.
“That is my job.”
“I know.”
“Then we’re even.”
“No.”
“That’s not how hospitals work.”
“I am aware.”
“Then explain.”
His eyes met mine.
“Someone tried to kill you yesterday.”
Everything inside me went still.
“What?”
“The reason you collapsed wasn’t only exhaustion.”
I said nothing.
“Your brake line had been cut.”
I stared at him.
“My Honda?”
“Yes.”
I almost laughed.
“Someone tried to assassinate me in a twelve-year-old Honda?”
Dante didn’t smile.
“You reached the garage. One of my men noticed fluid beneath your car.”
“One of your men.”
“Yes.”
“Why was one of your men following me?”
Silence.
There it was.
I pointed at him.
“No. Don’t do the mysterious silence thing. Why?”
“Because after the shooting, I assigned protection to everyone directly involved in my treatment.”
“Without telling us?”
“Yes.”
“That’s called surveillance.”
“Yes.”
I blinked.
Apparently he had inherited my preference for inconvenient honesty.
“Why?”
“Because the attack on me wasn’t random.”
“I assumed mafia bosses generally don’t get shot because someone mistook them for a deer.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You’re very comfortable insulting me.”
“I have seen your spleen.”
“You have not.”
“Correct. Wrong quadrant. I’m tired.”
Something almost happened to his mouth.
Then it disappeared.
“The people responsible for the attack believed I survived because of someone inside Lakefront Memorial.”
“That someone being me.”
“Possibly.”
“Why would killing me matter now?”
“Because you may know something.”
“I know a lot of things. Most involve anatomy.”
“Did I say anything during surgery?”
“You were unconscious.”
“Before?”
“No.”
“Did Matteo?”
“He threatened to kill me.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“Good. Then your internal communications are excellent.”
“He had no authority to do that.”
“The gun suggested otherwise.”
“He was wrong.”
I folded my arms.
“That apology sounded suspiciously like it came from you.”
“It did.”
“Where is Matteo?”
“Downstairs.”
“Bring him up.”
Dante stared.
“Why?”
“Because if I’m apparently having breakfast at Mafia Downton Abbey, I want to speak to the man who put a gun against my head.”
“This isn’t—”
“Bring him.”
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then Dante opened the door.
“Matteo.”
I heard footsteps.
Thirty seconds later, Matteo Vale appeared.
Same scar.
Same broad shoulders.
Same expression carved from granite.
But when he saw me awake, something changed.
“Doctor.”
“Enforcer.”
His eyes moved toward Dante.
Dante said nothing.
Good.
This conversation belonged to me.
“Do you remember Bay Three?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember putting a gun against my head?”
“Yes.”
“Do you regret it?”
Matteo’s jaw moved.
“Yes.”
“That was suspiciously quick.”
“I’ve had three weeks.”
“Apparently self-reflection survives organized crime.”
“Stella.”
Dante’s warning was quiet.
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Excellent.”
I turned back to Matteo.
“Why did you do it?”
“I thought he was dying.”
“He was.”
Matteo’s eyes shifted toward Dante.
“He saved my life when I was nineteen.”
That wasn’t what I expected.
“He gave me work when nobody else would. Paid for my mother’s medical care. When I saw him bleeding…”
Matteo stopped.
“I lost judgment.”
I studied him.
“That explains it.”
He looked surprised.
“It doesn’t excuse it.”
His expression changed.
“No.”
“You frightened my nurse.”
“I know.”
“Her name is Priya.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I apologized.”
I blinked.
“When?”
“Last week.”
“What did she say?”
Matteo looked almost offended.
“She told me never to enter her hospital again unless I was bleeding or unconscious.”
I smiled.
“That sounds like Priya.”
“I sent flowers.”
“Of course you did.”
“She sent them back.”
“Definitely Priya.”
Something almost resembling embarrassment crossed his face.
“Doctor, I was wrong.”
I waited.
No qualification came.
No but.
No explanation about loyalty.
Just wrong.
“I accept the apology,” I said. “I don’t trust you.”
“I understand.”
“And if you ever point a weapon at medical staff again—”
“You’ll do what?”
“I’ll tell Priya.”
For the first time, Matteo Vale looked genuinely concerned.
Dante turned toward the window.
His shoulders moved once.
“Are you laughing?” I demanded.
“No.”
“Coward.”
Matteo actually smiled.
The absurdity of the situation almost made me forget someone had apparently cut my brake line.
Almost.
“Back to the attempted murder,” I said.
Dante’s expression became serious again.
“We don’t know whether you were the intended target.”
“Comforting.”
“Your car was tampered with.”
“How do you know it wasn’t random vandalism?”
“Because Evan Mercer’s car was also tampered with.”
My stomach dropped.
“Evan?”
“He’s fine.”
“Where is he?”
“Home.”
“Does he know?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t anyone call police?”
“They did.”
I stared.
“Actual police?”
“Yes, Stella.”
“I’m checking.”
“Detective Lena Ortiz is handling it.”
I knew Ortiz.
She had been in our ER enough times with injured officers and victims to know everyone by name.
That helped.
Slightly.
“Then why am I here instead of somewhere normal?”
Dante’s answer came carefully.
“Because someone entered your apartment yesterday.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing was taken.”
“How do you know?”
“Ortiz called me after your building manager reported the damaged lock.”
I felt suddenly cold.
“My mother has a key.”
“She wasn’t there.”
“You checked?”
“Yes.”
Anger returned.
“You checked on my mother?”
“To make sure she was safe.”
“You don’t get to reorganize my entire life because someone threatened me.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because your opening sentence suggested otherwise.”
Dante looked at the key in my hand.
“That sentence was a mistake.”
“What were you going to say?”
He exhaled.
“That until we know who targeted you, I consider your safety my responsibility.”
“Also unacceptable.”
“I expected that.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because responsibility and authority are not the same thing.”
That made me pause.
He continued.
“I feel responsible because the danger appears connected to me. That doesn’t give me authority over you.”
I stared.
“That is significantly better than ‘I own your life.’”
“Yes.”
“How did you get from one to the other?”
“Pain medication.”
“You’re taking narcotics?”
“Not anymore.”
“You should reconsider.”
He almost smiled.
I looked at the key.
“So I can leave.”
“Yes.”
“Right now.”
“Yes.”
“Walk out the front door.”
“Yes.”
“Without anyone stopping me.”
“Yes.”
I grabbed my phone.
“Good.”
Dante’s expression didn’t change.
“You’ll need shoes.”
I looked down.
Bare feet.
I hated him slightly.
“Where are my clothes?”
“Closet.”
Ten minutes later, I came downstairs wearing yesterday’s jeans, a clean sweater someone had apparently purchased, and my own shoes.
The Rossi estate was nothing like I expected.
No marble lions.
No gold furniture.
No portraits of sinister ancestors.
It was an old stone house overlooking Lake Michigan, warm wood floors, bookshelves, large windows, and enough security cameras to protect a small country.
A woman in her sixties stood in the kitchen making coffee.
She looked at me.
“You’re awake.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Eat.”
“I need to leave.”
“Eat first.”
I looked at Dante.
“Who is she?”
“Lucia.”
“Who is Lucia?”
The woman answered herself.
“The person who kept him alive before you took over.”
“I thought that was Matteo.”
Lucia snorted.
“Matteo couldn’t keep a basil plant alive.”
From somewhere behind me, Matteo said, “That happened once.”
“Three times.”
I liked Lucia immediately.
She put eggs in front of me.
I ate.
Apparently attempted murder did not reduce appetite after thirty hours awake.
Dante sat opposite me.
He didn’t eat.
I noticed.
“Are you nauseated?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You’re pale.”
“I was shot.”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Recovery takes time.”
“Finally, something medically sensible.”
Lucia put toast beside him.
He stared at it.
She stared back.
He ate.
Interesting.
Even Chicago’s most feared man had someone who could make him eat toast.
My phone rang.
Evan.
I answered immediately.
“Stella?”
“I’m alive.”
“Where the hell are you?”
I looked at Dante.
“At a very strange bed-and-breakfast.”
Dante closed his eyes.
“Are you with Rossi?”
“Yes.”
“Are you safe?”
I considered.
“Yes.”
It surprised me.
“Ortiz told me about the cars.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I did. Twenty-three times.”
I looked at my screen.
“Right.”
“You collapsed.”
“Apparently.”
“Stella, you’ve been working insane hours.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
I hated when people said that.
“Evan.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He sighed.
“Hospital administration wants us both off the schedule until police clear this.”
“What?”
“Paid leave.”
“I don’t want leave.”
“You need sleep.”
“I just slept fourteen hours.”
“Congratulations. You’re halfway to human.”
I looked at Dante.
He was watching me.
“I’ll call you later.”
“Please do.”
I hung up.
Dante spoke.
“He cares about you.”
“He’s my friend.”
“Only friend?”
I stared.
“Did the bullet damage your ability to mind your business?”
Lucia laughed from the sink.
Dante ignored her.
“I was asking.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, Evan isn’t my boyfriend.”
“I didn’t ask that.”
“You were about to.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
Matteo entered carrying a folder.
He placed it in front of Dante.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
“What?” I asked.
Dante read the first page.
His face became unreadable.
“Dante.”
He looked at Matteo.
“Where?”
“Hospital records office.”
My chair scraped backward.
“What about it?”
Matteo looked at me.
“Someone accessed Mr. Rossi’s operative file.”
“Doctors access operative files.”
“Not using a dead physician’s credentials.”
Silence.
“What?”
Dante turned the folder toward me.
The login belonged to Dr. Samuel Price.
I knew that name.
Everyone at Lakefront did.
Samuel Price had been a cardiothoracic surgeon.
He had died eighteen months earlier.
“That account should have been disabled.”
“It wasn’t,” Matteo said.
“When?”
“Two days after Dante’s surgery.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did they access?”
“Your operative report.”
“Anything else?”
“Personnel files.”
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
Of course.
“Evan’s.”
Of course.
“And one nurse.”
“Priya?”
“No.”
Matteo hesitated.
“Margaret Caroline.”
I stopped breathing.
Dante noticed.
“Who is that?”
“My mother.”
The kitchen went silent.
“My mother worked at Lakefront twenty-seven years ago.”
“As a nurse?” Dante asked.
“Yes.”
“What department?”
“Trauma.”
Matteo opened another page.
“The person accessed her archived employment file.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
I grabbed my phone.
Mom answered immediately.
“Stella, finally.”
“Mom, are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Lock the doors.”
Silence.
“What happened?”
“Just do it.”
“Stella.”
“Please.”
That word changed her.
“All right.”
“Did you ever know Dante Rossi?”
Across the table, Dante went still.
My mother said nothing.
“Mom?”
“How do you know that name?”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“Because I operated on him three weeks ago.”
Silence.
Then:
“Oh, Stella.”
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Dante heard it.
I watched his expression change.
“You know him.”
“I knew his family.”
“How?”
“Not on the phone.”
“Mom.”
“Come here.”
I looked at Dante.
He was already standing.
“I’ll drive.”
“No.”
“Stella.”
“I am not arriving at my mother’s house with a mafia convoy.”
“Two cars.”
“No.”
“One.”
“No.”
Lucia put a mug into my hand.
“Take him.”
I stared at her.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Common sense.”
Dante’s mouth twitched.
I pointed at him.
“Don’t enjoy this.”
Forty minutes later, Dante Rossi sat in my mother’s living room.
If someone had told me that sentence a month earlier, I would have recommended psychiatric evaluation.
Mom stared at him.
Dante stared back.
Then she said:
“You look like your mother.”
Everything changed.
Dante’s expression emptied.
“You knew my mother?”
Mom sat slowly.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I was there the night you were born.”
I nearly dropped my coffee.
“What?”
Dante didn’t move.
“My mother died when I was six.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Mom looked at me.
Then at him.
“Her name wasn’t always Sofia Rossi.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“Before she married your father, she was Sofia Bellini.”
“I know that.”
“She worked at Lakefront.”
Dante frowned.
“As what?”
“A nurse.”
That stunned him.
“My father said she never worked.”
“Your father said many things.”
There was history in my mother’s voice.
“What happened?”
Mom stood.
She walked toward an old cabinet.
From the bottom drawer, she removed a wooden box.
I had seen it my entire childhood.
She never let me open it.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
An old hospital badge.
Then she placed a photograph on the table.
Two young women in nursing uniforms stood outside Lakefront Memorial.
One was my mother.
The other was unmistakably Dante’s mother.
Same dark eyes.
Same expression.
“Sofia and I were best friends.”
Dante picked up the photograph carefully.
“Why didn’t I know?”
“Because after she married Carlo Rossi, she left nursing.”
“My father didn’t want her working.”
“No.”
Dante looked up.
“No?”
“Sofia left because she was pregnant.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t explain why nobody ever mentioned you.”
My mother became quiet.
“After you were born, Sofia became frightened.”
“Of my father?”
“No.”
That surprised all of us.
“Then what?”
“Of his brother.”
Dante frowned.
“My uncle Gabriel?”
“Yes.”
I knew the name.
Gabriel Rossi had died years ago.
“He handled the family’s legitimate companies then,” Mom continued. “Freight. Construction. Property.”
Dante’s expression hardened.
“What did he do?”
“Sofia discovered financial records she believed were being manipulated.”
“Why would she care?”
“Because some of the accounts were connected to a charitable medical foundation.”
I felt the pieces beginning to move.
“Lakefront?”
Mom nodded.
“Your grandfather donated heavily to the hospital. Gabriel managed the foundation.”
Dante stared.
“Sofia thought money was being redirected.”
“Was it?”
“She believed so.”
“Did she report it?”
“She tried.”
“To whom?”
“A hospital administrator.”
“Who?”
Mom looked at me.
“Samuel Price’s father.”
My stomach dropped.
“Dr. Edward Price?”
“Yes.”
Samuel’s father had been chief of surgery.
A celebrated physician.
A wing of Lakefront still carried his name.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
Mom’s expression tightened.
“Edward told Sofia she misunderstood the records.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she showed them to me.”
Dante leaned forward.
“What records?”
“I don’t have them.”
“Where are they?”
“Sofia kept them.”
“What happened to her?”
Mom looked at him.
The question carried twenty-seven years of silence.
“She died in a car accident.”
Dante’s voice became colder.
“I know how my mother died.”
“Do you?”
Nobody moved.
“Mom,” I said carefully.
She looked at me.
“The official report said Sofia lost control on an icy road.”
Dante’s face was completely still.
“It was January.”
“It was.”
“But the roads were dry that night.”
Silence.
Dante stood.
I immediately recognized the change in him.
Not rage.
Something more dangerous.
Focus.
“Who knew?”
“My husband.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“Gabriel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Edward Price?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
Mom hesitated.
“Carlo came to me after Sofia died.”
“What did my father say?”
“He told me to forget everything.”
Dante laughed once.
It was empty.
“That sounds like him.”
“No.”
Mom looked directly at him.
“He wasn’t threatening me.”
Dante stopped.
“He was terrified.”
That changed something.
“Of Gabriel?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“Your father never said.”
“Why didn’t you go to police?”
“We had no documents.”
“You had knowledge.”
“We had suspicion.”
Dante looked away.
My mother continued.
“And I had a four-year-old daughter.”
Me.
I understood.
Not completely.
But enough.
“You were afraid.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“I chose you.”
I didn’t know how to feel about that.
Grateful.
Angry.
Both.
Dante picked up the photograph again.
“If Gabriel is dead, why is someone searching these files now?”
Mom’s face changed.
“I don’t know.”
My phone rang.
Detective Ortiz.
I answered.
“Stella.”
“I’m here.”
“Are you with Rossi?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
That was not what I expected from a detective.
“Why good?”
“Because we found something in your car.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Not the brake line.”
“What else?”
“A tracking device.”
Dante’s eyes sharpened.
“How old?”
“Hard to say. But that’s not the strange part.”
“What is?”
“It wasn’t transmitting your location.”
I frowned.
“What was it transmitting?”
“Audio.”
Nobody spoke.
Ortiz continued.
“Someone has apparently been listening to conversations inside your car.”
I remembered phone calls.
Evan.
My mother.
Hospital discussions.
Then one conversation stood out.
Two weeks earlier, Mom had called while I was driving home.
She had asked about Dante.
Not casually.
She had asked whether he survived.
Whether he remembered anything.
Whether anyone had mentioned his mother.
At the time, I thought she was curious because the shooting was on the news.
Now I understood.
“Someone heard my mother ask about Sofia Rossi.”
Dante went still.
Ortiz heard me.
“That could explain why your mother’s archive was accessed.”
I looked at Mom.
Her face had gone pale.
“Where are you?” Ortiz asked.
“My mother’s.”
“Stay there.”
“Why?”
“We’re sending officers.”
“Why?”
“Because someone just tried to enter her house through the back door.”
I turned toward the kitchen.
Mom whispered, “I locked it.”
Dante was already moving.
But he didn’t pull a weapon.
He didn’t bark orders.
He walked to the window and looked outside.
Matteo, who had remained in the car at my insistence, appeared at the front door seconds later.
“Police are coming,” I said.
Dante nodded.
“Good.”
Again.
Not what I expected.
Five minutes later, Ortiz arrived.
No dramatic confrontation followed.
The person at the back door had disappeared.
A camera from the neighboring house captured a dark sedan.
The plate was unreadable.
Ortiz interviewed my mother.
Then Dante.
Then me.
For two hours, the feared Rossi family and Chicago police occupied my mother’s modest living room while she repeatedly offered everyone coffee.
It was absurd.
It was also the moment the story changed.
Because Ortiz found no evidence the threat came from Dante’s current rivals.
Instead, every clue pointed backward.
Lakefront Memorial.
The Price family.
The old Rossi charitable foundation.
Sofia.
And a secret buried before Dante and I were old enough to understand it.
That evening, after the police left, Dante stood on Mom’s porch.
I joined him.
“You should go somewhere secure,” he said.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not ordering you.”
“Good.”
“Ortiz recommended it.”
“She recommended a hotel.”
“My estate is safer.”
“Your estate has Matteo.”
“Matteo is house-trained.”
“Debatable.”
He smiled faintly.
Then became serious.
“You can stay anywhere you choose.”
I looked at him.
“But?”
“But I would prefer somewhere I know is protected.”
“You don’t own my life.”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“I don’t.”
I studied him.
“Do you understand why that sentence made me want to hit you?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“My father used to say ownership was the only form of security.”
That surprised me.
“People?”
“Companies. Property. Loyalty. Information.”
“Everything.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
He looked toward the dark street.
“I spent most of my life believing him.”
“What changed?”
He looked at me.
“You.”
I almost laughed.
“We have known each other conscious for approximately eight hours.”
“You told a man holding a gun to your head to move because he was blocking your light.”
“That wasn’t wisdom. That was sleep deprivation.”
“It was clarity.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I said nothing.
He continued.
“I thought saving my life created a debt.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“That was fast.”
“You are persuasive.”
“I’m loud.”
“Also true.”
I looked through the window.
My mother was showing Matteo an old photograph.
He looked terrified of her.
Good.
“Why did your father raise you to think that way?”
“Because he lost my mother.”
The answer was simple.
Painfully so.
“After she died, he became obsessed with controlling every variable.”
“That worked well.”
“No.”
Dante’s expression softened.
“He died believing control could prevent loss.”
“Could it?”
“No.”
Rain began again.
Lightly this time.
I watched droplets gather on the porch railing.
“I’m staying at your estate tonight.”
Dante looked at me.
“Because I choose to.”
“Yes.”
“Not because you tell me.”
“Yes.”
“And I get my own room.”
“Obviously.”
“With a lock.”
“Yes.”
“And the key stays with me.”
“Yes.”
“And tomorrow I go back to the hospital.”
His expression changed.
“No.”
I narrowed my eyes.
He corrected himself immediately.
“Ortiz asked you to stay away until the access breach is investigated.”
“Better.”
“I am learning.”
“Slowly.”
We returned to his estate.
My mother came too.
That was not negotiable.
By midnight, Lucia had put Mom in a guest room.
Matteo was arguing with Detective Ortiz over security footage.
Dante was in his study.
I should have slept.
Instead, I found him there.
He was sitting at a desk surrounded by old documents.
“You need rest.”
“So do you.”
“I slept fourteen hours.”
“You collapsed.”
“You were shot.”
He considered.
“Draw.”
“Agreed.”
I entered.
On the desk was the photograph of our mothers.
“You took it.”
“Your mother gave it to me.”
I sat.
“They look happy.”
“They do.”
Dante touched the corner of the photograph.
“I remember very little about her.”
“You were six.”
“I remember her perfume.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know.”
“Helpful.”
“Something with oranges.”
I smiled.
“Anything else?”
“She sang badly.”
“Everyone’s mother sings badly.”
“She was exceptionally gifted.”
I laughed.
He smiled.
Then his gaze returned to the photograph.
“I spent thirty-two years believing her death was an accident.”
“We don’t know it wasn’t.”
“No.”
That mattered.
He wasn’t rushing to certainty.
“Promise me something,” I said.
His eyes lifted.
“No.”
I blinked.
“You don’t even know what.”
“I don’t make promises before hearing terms.”
“Annoyingly sensible.”
“What?”
“Don’t turn this into revenge.”
His expression became unreadable.
“You think that’s what I would do.”
“I think you’ve spent your life in a world where people solve problems differently than I do.”
“Yes.”
“And if someone hurt your mother—”
“I want the truth.”
“Only the truth?”
His gaze held mine.
“Only the truth.”
I believed he meant it.
Whether he could keep that promise was another question.
A knock came.
Matteo entered carrying a laptop.
“We found something.”
Dante gestured.
He placed the computer down.
“Security footage from Lakefront.”
The screen showed the records corridor.
Timestamp: two days after Dante’s surgery.
A figure entered wearing scrubs.
Cap.
Mask.
Impossible to identify.
They used Samuel Price’s credentials.
Then removed the mask for three seconds.
I leaned closer.
I knew the face.
“No.”
Dante looked at me.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
My stomach twisted.
“That’s Dr. Evan Mercer.”
Silence.
My friend.
My colleague.
The man who had stood beside me during Dante’s surgery.
The man who called twenty-three times after I collapsed.
Matteo spoke carefully.
“We checked.”
“Checked what?”
“Mercer’s mother.”
I didn’t want to hear the answer.
“Her maiden name was Price.”
I stared.
“Samuel Price was his uncle.”
Dante became completely still.
Matteo continued.
“And Edward Price—the surgeon Sofia Rossi approached twenty-seven years ago—was Evan Mercer’s grandfather.”
Everything inside me went cold.
I thought about Evan in the trauma bay.
His concern.
His insistence that we call security.
His friendship.
Then I remembered something.
During surgery, when Dante’s blood pressure crashed, Evan had asked whether we should stop.
I had said no.
Afterward, he had repeatedly asked whether Dante said anything before anesthesia.
I had dismissed it as curiosity.
Maybe it wasn’t.
My phone vibrated.
Evan.
I stared at his name.
Nobody spoke.
It rang again.
“Answer,” Dante said.
I looked at him.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
He nodded.
“Sorry.”
I answered.
“Evan.”
“Stella.”
His voice sounded normal.
Too normal.
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
A pause.
“No, you’re not.”
My heart began pounding.
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m standing outside your apartment.”
I looked at Dante.
He was already reaching for his phone.
Evan continued.
“Stella, I need you to listen carefully.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re in danger.”
“From whom?”
A long silence.
Then:
“From the person who shot Dante Rossi.”
My mouth went dry.
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
“Then tell Detective Ortiz.”
“I tried.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your mother knows more than she’s saying.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“About what?”
“About Sofia Rossi.”
“Evan.”
“And about my grandfather.”
“What did your grandfather do?”
His breathing changed.
“Not what everyone thinks.”
“Then explain.”
“I need to show you something.”
“What?”
“A recording.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed.
“Of whom?”
“Sofia Rossi.”
Nobody moved.
Dante had heard.
His face lost every trace of color.
“You have a recording of Dante’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“My grandfather made it.”
“When?”
“The night before she died.”
Dante closed his eyes.
I gripped the phone.
“What does she say?”
Evan’s answer came quietly.
“She says she knows someone inside the Rossi family has been stealing from the hospital foundation.”
“That isn’t new.”
“No.”
“Then what is?”
“She names the person.”
I looked at Dante.
“Gabriel?”
“No.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
Evan was silent.
“Evan.”
Then he said the one name none of us had expected.
“Carlo Rossi.”
Dante’s father.
May you like
The room went completely silent.
And for the first time since I had met Dante Rossi, the most feared man in Chicago looked genuinely afraid of the truth.
