Chapter 7 - The Cost of Staying Alive
Dominic survived.
That sounds simple.
It wasn’t.
He spent another eleven days on IV antibiotics.
The wound needed a second debridement.
His kidney function recovered.
His fever broke.
His appetite returned slowly and mostly because I threatened to document every untouched meal where Leo could see it.
The man feared no assassin.
But apparently disliked being judged by household staff.
On day twelve, he walked to the window.
Not far.
Maybe fifteen feet.
His right arm stayed in a sling.
His steps were slower than he wanted.
Still, he stood.
Outside, the estate lawn looked gray under late-autumn rain.
“You need flowers,” I said.
He looked at me.
“What?”
“This place has no flowers.”
“Flowers die.”
“So do people.”
His expression changed.
I immediately regretted it.
Then he laughed.
“That was dark.”
“You started it.”
“No, I built hedges.”
“Exactly.”
We had stopped pretending our conversations were strictly professional.
That was dangerous in a different way.
I had rules too.
No relationships with patients.
No dependence on rich men who could change your life with one phone call.
No confusing gratitude with intimacy.
I reminded myself daily.
Dominic made it difficult.
Not because he flirted.
He did not.
Because he listened.
Actually listened.
When I told him about losing my ER job, he did not offer money.
When I complained about my landlord, he did not buy the building.
I suspected Leo had warned him.
Good.
When I mentioned my father, Dominic asked his name.
“Thomas Hayes.”
“Police?”
“Yes.”
“Chicago?”
“Yes.”
Dominic went quiet.
“What?”
“I know the name.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Hayes worked organized crime.”
“Yes.”
That was true.
My father had died in an off-duty car crash when I was nineteen.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
Dominic looked uncomfortable.
“What did he investigate?”
“I don’t know. He kept work separate.”
He stared toward the window.
That was when I knew.
“You know something.”
“No.”
“Dominic.”
He sighed.
“I heard your father’s name from my father.”
My chest went cold.
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“How old?”
“Maybe eighteen.”
“What did he say?”
Dominic hesitated.
“That Hayes was honest.”
I almost laughed.
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“In my father’s mouth, it was a warning.”
The room changed.
“Was my father investigating the Rossis?”
“Probably.”
“Did your family kill him?”
Dominic looked at me sharply.
“I don’t know.”
“That is not good enough.”
“No.”
“At least we agree.”
He sat again, exhausted.
I hated that I wanted answers while he was still recovering.
I hated even more that I could not stop.
“Can Leo check?”
“Yes.”
“Do it.”
He nodded.
No argument.
Two days later, Leo brought a file.
Thin.
Old.
My father’s name.
Thomas Hayes.
Detective, Organized Crime Division.
Dominic gave it to me unopened.
“You read it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It’s yours.”
That almost hurt.
I opened it.
My father had investigated Giuseppe Rossi and Enzo DeLuca fifteen years earlier.
He had identified bribery channels.
Protection payments.
One confidential source inside the Rossi network.
Then the investigation ended abruptly after my father died in a single-car crash.
No evidence of tampering.
Official finding: accident caused by slick road.
My hands shook.
“Who was his source?”
Leo said, “Redacted.”
Dominic looked at him.
“Can you unredact it?”
“I can try.”
I read the final page.
There was a handwritten note from my father’s lieutenant.
HAYES BELIEVED SOURCE IN IMMEDIATE DANGER. REQUESTED PROTECTIVE TRANSFER.
The date was three days before my father died.
I looked at Dominic.
“This never ends.”
He understood.
Family secrets.
Old crimes.
Dead people leaving work for the living.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Good.
I went home that night for the first time in almost two weeks.
My apartment smelled stale.
The eviction notice was still taped inside the kitchen cabinet where I had hidden it from myself.
I had been paid.
Enough to cover rent.
Enough to breathe.
Not enough to stop the anxiety living in my shoulders.
I slept four hours.
At six a.m., someone knocked.
I opened the door with the chain on.
Leo.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you here?”
He held out a folder.
“We found the source.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
He looked tired.
“Elena Rossi.”
I stared.
Dominic’s sister had been my father’s confidential source.
The room seemed to shift.
“That’s impossible.”
“She would have been sixteen when the first contact happened.”
Too young.
Leo shook his head.
“Not her.”
He opened the folder.
“Elena was the source six years later, when she contacted prosecutors.”
“That’s not my father.”
“No. Your father’s source was their mother.”
Maria Rossi.
Dominic’s mother.
Dead ten years.
I sat down.
Maria Rossi had secretly given information to Thomas Hayes about Giuseppe’s criminal structure.
My father died before he could protect her.
She stayed.
Years later, Elena found her mother’s old correspondence.
That was how she learned enough to start her own investigation.
Two women in one family had tried to break the cycle.
Both paid.
“What happened to Maria?” I asked.
“Cancer.”
“At least one normal death.”
Leo gave a sad nod.
“Your father’s crash still looks accidental.”
“Looks.”
“Yes.”
I stared at the files.
Then something caught my eye.
A photocopy of an old note from Maria to my father.
THOMAS,
IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME, DO NOT TRUST ENZO WITH THE GIRL.
The girl.
Elena.
Enzo had been dangerous long before the bombing.
Dominic needed to see this.
I drove to the estate.
My car died at the gate again.
This time, one of the guards laughed.
I did too.
Progress.
Dominic was in the library.
Standing.
No sling.
Still stiff.
I handed him the note.
He read it.
Then sat down slowly.
“My mother knew.”
“Yes.”
“She knew Enzo was dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“She never told me.”
“Maybe she tried.”
His eyes lifted.
I realized what I had said.
People in this family always claimed silence was protection.
Maybe sometimes silence was fear.
Maybe sometimes failed attempts disappear.
Dominic looked at me.
“Your father tried to help my mother.”
“Yes.”
“And Elena followed the same path.”
“Yes.”
“Your family got pulled into mine before we ever met.”
I nodded.
He looked almost haunted by the coincidence.
Then I noticed a small vase on the table.
One white flower.
“Is that new?”
He looked annoyed.
“Leo.”
“Sure.”
“It was Leo.”
“Of course.”
I smiled.
He smiled back.
For one suspended second, neither of us looked away.
Then the phone rang.
Reality returned.
Dominic answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He listened.
“No. Keep her there.”
He ended the call.
“Lucia?”
“No.”
“Matteo?”
“No.”
“Who?”
He looked at me.
“Bellini’s lawyer.”
My stomach tightened.
“What now?”
“Bellini says there was another person involved.”
“Of course.”
“He has proof.”
“Who?”
Dominic’s face had gone pale.
“He says the person who ordered my infection wasn’t Enzo.”
“What?”
“Enzo ordered the shooting. But after I survived, someone else paid Bellini to keep me sick.”
I stared.
“Who?”
May you like
Dominic looked toward the doorway.
“Leo.”
