Chapter 3 - Someone Followed Me Home
“Take the next right.”
The cab driver looked at me in the mirror.
“That's not the address.”
“I know.”
Rain streaked across the windows.
The black sedan stayed behind us.
“Then where am I going?”
“Anywhere busy.”
He glanced at the mirror again and finally noticed the car.
His expression changed.
“You know them?”
“No.”
“That’s not good.”
“I noticed.”
He turned sharply onto Broadway.
The sedan followed.
I called Dominic.
He answered on the first ring.
“Casey?”
“Someone is following me.”
No questions.
“Where?”
“Broadway near Ninety-Seventh.”
“What car?”
“Black sedan. I can't see the plate.”
“Stay in the cab.”
“That was the plan.”
“Put me on speaker.”
I did.
Dominic spoke directly to the driver.
“Sir, continue south. Do not stop until I tell you.”
The driver’s eyebrows rose.
“Who is this?”
“Someone who will pay you very well for your inconvenience.”
“That works.”
We drove.
Dominic stayed on the line.
Three minutes later, two dark SUVs appeared from a side street.
My stomach dropped.
“This is getting worse.”
“They’re mine.”
“You could have mentioned that first.”
The SUVs moved between us and the sedan.
For another block, the sedan remained behind them.
Then it turned away.
Dominic's voice came through the speaker.
“Did it leave?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Do people normally follow doctoral students around Manhattan because of footnotes?”
“No.”
“Wonderful.”
“I'm sending you to a hotel.”
“No.”
“Casey.”
“I have class tomorrow.”
“You were threatened.”
“My dissertation advisor is worse.”
The cab driver laughed.
Dominic did not.
“Your apartment isn't safe.”
That stopped me.
The joke disappeared.
“You think they know where I live?”
“If they know your number, assume they know everything attached to it.”
The thought made my skin cold.
My apartment contained nothing valuable.
Books.
Research.
A thrift-store couch.
Photographs of my mother.
But it was mine.
The one place in New York where I did not have to be a waitress or candidate or daughter trying to sound optimistic during hospital calls.
Dominic gave the driver an address.
I protested.
He ignored me.
Twenty minutes later, we stopped outside an understated hotel on the Upper East Side.
One of Dominic’s men waited beneath the awning.
I stayed in the cab.
“No.”
Dominic was still on the phone.
“No what?”
“I am not walking into a hotel room arranged by a rumored mafia boss.”
The driver looked extremely interested.
Dominic sighed.
“Casey, I am trying to keep you alive.”
“I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Then get out of the cab.”
“Send a woman.”
Silence.
“What?”
“If someone is escorting me upstairs, send a female employee.”
“You think that makes a difference?”
“To me, yes.”
Another pause.
“Fine.”
Five minutes later, a woman in her forties approached the cab.
She introduced herself as Elena, the hotel’s overnight manager.
No gun.
No black suit.
No threatening expression.
Just sensible shoes and a clipboard.
Better.
The room Dominic arranged was actually a suite.
I called him immediately.
“This is too expensive.”
“So?”
“So I'm not paying for this.”
“I didn't ask you to.”
“I don't accept gifts from strangers.”
“Then consider it witness protection.”
“That is not comforting.”
“You complain a lot for someone staying in a suite.”
“I’d rather be complaining in my apartment.”
He was silent.
Then he said, “I know.”
The simple answer disarmed me.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Who could have gotten my number?”
“Anyone who saw your name tag and had access to basic records.”
“My name tag only says Casey.”
“Your manager knows your full name.”
“So do payroll records.”
“Yes.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“This is insane.”
“It will be handled.”
The phrase bothered me.
“What does handled mean?”
Another silence.
“Legally,” he said.
“You hesitated.”
“I was choosing a word you would accept.”
“Choose it faster next time.”
That almost-smile was somehow audible.
“Sleep, Casey.”
“I have to call my mother.”
His voice softened slightly.
“Do that.”
I ended the call.
Mom answered on the third ring.
“Sweetheart?”
Her voice sounded tired.
I hated that I could hear it.
“Hey, Mom.”
“You're calling late.”
“Restaurant shift.”
“How did it go?”
I looked around the luxury suite purchased by a suspected crime boss because someone had followed me through Manhattan after I discovered a multilingual corporate conspiracy.
“Normal.”
She laughed softly.
“You were never good at lying.”
I smiled despite myself.
“How are you?”
“Tired.”
“The nurse texted me.”
“She worries.”
“So do I.”
“I know.”
We talked about ordinary things.
Her neighbor’s terrible lawn decorations.
A television show she liked.
A bird that had somehow gotten into the hospital waiting room earlier that week.
Ordinary conversation was our way of fighting the extraordinary reality of illness.
Before hanging up, she said, “Casey?”
“Yeah?”
“You sound scared.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m just exhausted.”
“Don't let your bills turn you into someone who thinks she has to carry everything alone.”
My throat tightened.
“I won’t.”
Another lie.
After the call, I tried sleeping.
At 3:17 a.m., someone knocked.
I froze.
Another knock.
“Ms. Miller?”
Elena.
I opened the door with the security latch still attached.
“What happened?”
She held an envelope.
“This was delivered downstairs.”
“By whom?”
“A courier.”
“At three in the morning?”
“He left before security could question him.”
I stared at the envelope.
My name was typed across the front.
CASEY MILLER.
“Call Dominic.”
“I already did.”
“Good.”
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
My mother.
She was leaving her Ohio dialysis clinic two days earlier.
A second photograph showed her house.
A third showed me walking onto Columbia’s campus.
No message.
There didn't need to be one.
My hands began shaking.
Not dramatically.
Not visibly enough for Elena to notice at first.
But I felt the tremor in my fingers.
Then my phone rang.
Dominic.
I answered.
“They photographed my mother.”
“I know.”
His voice had changed.
No amusement now.
No polished restraint.
Only controlled fury.
“You said you would keep this legal.”
“I will.”
“They know where she lives.”
“I've already arranged local security.”
“You what?”
“Two people will watch the house from a distance. They will not approach her unless necessary.”
“You don't get to make decisions about my mother.”
“You're right.”
The answer came immediately.
“I should have asked.”
That stopped me.
He continued.
“But tonight I chose speed over permission.”
I sat down.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Help me understand the contract.”
I laughed once.
It came out bitter.
“So that’s the price of protection?”
“No.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I would protect her whether you helped me or not.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“Because she was threatened because of something connected to me.”
I looked at the photographs.
“That isn't the whole reason.”
“No.”
“Then what is?”
Another pause.
“Because I know what it is to watch a parent get sick while everyone around you treats money like an inconvenience instead of survival.”
I said nothing.
“My father died when I was nineteen,” Dominic continued. “Cancer. He refused treatment twice because he thought my mother couldn't afford it.”
For the first time, the myth around Dominic Russo cracked.
Behind the suits and whispered reputation was a nineteen-year-old boy sitting beside a dying father.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“So am I.”
We sat in silence across a phone line.
Then Dominic said, “Casey, there is something else.”
“What?”
“Daniel woke up.”
“Your attorney?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He remembers who gave him the replacement appendix.”
I waited.
Dominic’s next words made every photograph in my lap suddenly feel heavier.
May you like
“It came from my own house.”
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