PART 2 Three bullets tore through my body when I threw myself over the mafia boss’s six-year-old son. Everyone expected Victor Romano to reward me with money
PART 2
I woke to the sound of a child whispering.
“Is she still sleeping?”
A man answered from somewhere near the window.
“Yes.”
“Is she going to wake up?”
“She already has.”
My eyelids lifted.
The hospital room came into focus slowly—white ceiling, gray morning light, a monitor blinking beside me. Pain spread through my body in deep, heavy waves, no longer sharp enough to steal my breath but strong enough to remind me that moving would be a terrible idea.
Leo stood at the foot of the bed.
He wore navy pajamas beneath an oversized coat, and both hands were wrapped around a paper bag of butterscotch candy. His dark hair was uncombed. A small bandage crossed his left cheek where flying glass had cut him.
Victor sat beside the window.
He was still wearing the same white shirt from the attack, though someone had washed most of my blood from the fabric. His jacket was gone. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and for the first time since I had met him, he looked less like the head of an empire and more like a man who had been awake all night.
Leo noticed my eyes open.
“She’s awake.”
He ran toward the bed before Victor could stop him.
The sudden movement made every muscle in my back tighten.
I flinched.
Leo froze.
His joy disappeared so quickly that my heart hurt worse than the wounds.
“It’s all right,” I whispered.
My throat felt scraped raw.
“I’m just sore.”
He approached more carefully.
“Did the doctors fix you?”
“They’re trying.”
“They took three bullets out.”
Victor’s voice came quietly from the window.
“Leo.”
“What?” the boy asked. “She knows she got shot.”
I almost laughed, but the movement pulled painfully at my ribs.
A low sound escaped me instead.
Victor was beside the bed immediately.
“Don’t move.”
He reached toward the call button.
“I’m fine.”
“You were shot three times.”
“I noticed.”
His hand stopped.
For one second, surprise softened his face.
Then the cold control returned.
“The doctor said you should not strain.”
“The doctor probably did not expect an interrogation by a six-year-old.”
Leo placed the candy bag carefully beside my hand.
“I brought these.”
I looked at the folded brown paper.
“All of them?”
He nodded.
“Even the good ones.”
“Those are the good ones.”
“No. The ones with the darker wrappers are better.”
“I’ve been giving you the wrong candy for eight months?”
“You didn’t know.”
His expression was solemn, as if forgiving me for a serious failure.
I smiled.
“Thank you.”
Leo looked toward Victor.
“Can she come home today?”
“No,” Victor said.
“Tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because her body needs time to heal.”
Leo stared down at the hospital blanket.
“Because she got hurt for me.”
The room became very still.
I moved my fingers toward him.
He placed his hand in mine.
“This was not your fault.”
“If I had moved faster—”
“You were scared.”
“I should have run.”
“You’re six.”
Victor looked away.
I saw something tighten in his face.
Perhaps he had said the same thing to himself a hundred times since the attack.
I should have seen it coming.
I should have protected him.
I should have been there.
Guilt seemed to belong to everyone in the room except the people who had fired the guns.
“Leo,” I said, “do you remember what happened when you built that tower under the piano?”
His eyes lifted.
“It fell.”
“And whose fault was it?”
“The floor was crooked.”
Despite himself, Victor glanced toward us.
“The floor was not crooked,” I said.
“It looked crooked.”
“You used one large block on top of two small ones.”
Leo considered this.
“So it was the blocks’ fault.”
“The point is that sometimes bad things happen because something was wrong before we touched it.”
He looked toward the bandage beneath my hospital gown.
“The men were wrong.”
“Yes.”
“Not me.”
“Not you.”
His small fingers tightened around mine.
Victor watched us in silence.
A nurse entered a few minutes later and insisted Leo wait in the hallway while she checked my dressings and medication. Victor went with him, but not before looking back twice.
When the door closed, the nurse exhaled.
“You have important visitors.”
“That is one word for them.”
She checked the monitor.
“Mr. Romano has been in that chair for fourteen hours.”
I looked toward the window.
“He stayed all night?”
“He refused to leave.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He also replaced the security team on this floor, argued with the hospital administrator about the windows, and had a second surgeon review your scans.”
“That sounds even more like him.”
The nurse smiled faintly.
“He was terrified.”
I looked away.
Victor Romano did not show fear.
He showed displeasure, calculation, and occasionally silence so cold that grown men forgot how to speak.
But I remembered his hands shaking when he pulled Leo from beneath me.
I remembered his voice saying I did not get to die.
And the final words before darkness took me.
You belong to me.
My chest tightened for a reason that had nothing to do with the bullets.
“Is my brother here?” I asked.
The nurse’s expression softened.
“He came during the night. He is in the family waiting room.”
Relief moved through me.
“Can I see him?”
“I’ll bring him.”
My younger brother, Jamie, entered ten minutes later using the silver cane he hated.
At twenty-three, he was tall, thin, and too proud to accept help unless the pain in his legs made refusal impossible. A rare autoimmune disorder had damaged the nerves around his spine. Some days he walked normally. Other days every step required concentration.
The treatments keeping him mobile cost more each month than our rent.
That was why I had taken the job at the Romano estate.
That was why I had learned to become invisible around loaded guns.
Jamie stopped in the doorway.
His face crumpled.
“Oh, Mara.”
I had not heard my own name since the attack.
At the mansion, I was Miss Vale when formality mattered and housekeeper when it did not. Leo called me Mara only when no one else could hear.
Jamie crossed the room carefully and lowered himself into the chair.
“You look terrible.”
“You always know what to say.”
“I thought you were going to die.”
His voice broke.
I reached for his hand.
“I didn’t.”
“You could have.”
“Yes.”
He pressed his forehead against our joined hands.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Our parents had died when I was twenty and Jamie seventeen. Since then, we had survived through temporary jobs, shared apartments, payment plans, and the stubborn belief that if one of us remained standing, neither of us was entirely alone.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Jamie lifted his head.
“For what?”
“For scaring you.”
“You threw yourself over a child during a shooting, and you’re apologizing to me?”
“I know it sounds ridiculous.”
“It sounds like you.”
He wiped his face with his sleeve.
“What happens now?”
“I heal.”
“I mean with the Romanos.”
I looked toward the closed door.
“I don’t know.”
Jamie studied me.
“There are six armed men in the hallway.”
“Victor likes precautions.”
“One of them checked my cane for weapons.”
“That seems excessive.”
“He apologized afterward.”
“Then he’s one of the polite ones.”
Jamie did not smile.
“You cannot go back there.”
The words settled heavily.
“I need the job.”
“You were almost killed.”
“And your next treatment is in twelve days.”
His face changed.
“That is not your responsibility.”
“It is ours.”
“No. You keep saying ours when you mean yours.”
I looked at him.
He continued before I could answer.
“You work sixteen-hour days. You skip meals. You wear shoes until the soles split. And now you’ve been shot because you were cleaning a criminal’s house.”
“I was shot because I protected Leo.”
“You should never have been in a position where that was necessary.”
He was right.
That did not make the answer simple.
“Victor pays enough to cover the treatment.”
“We’ll find another way.”
“What way?”
“I’ll defer the infusion.”
“No.”
“I can manage.”
“You couldn’t stand last month.”
“I recovered.”
“After three days.”
Jamie looked away.
“I would rather lose the ability to walk than watch you lose your life.”
The quiet conviction in his voice silenced me.
Before I could answer, the door opened.
Victor stood in the doorway.
He had heard enough.
Jamie straightened.
The room changed when Victor entered. Even exhausted and unarmed, he carried authority like another man might carry a coat. He did not need to raise his voice or announce his name. The air simply adjusted around him.
“Mr. Vale,” he said.
“Romano.”
Jamie’s tone held none of the fear most people used around Victor.
I closed my eyes briefly.
Of course my little brother would challenge the most dangerous man in Chicago while sitting beside my hospital bed.
Victor approached.
“Your sister will not be returning to work as a housekeeper.”
My heart sank.
Jamie’s jaw tightened.
“Then I assume you will compensate her for being injured in your home.”
“Jamie.”
“No,” he said. “She nearly died protecting his son.”
Victor’s expression remained unreadable.
“She will receive compensation.”
“I don’t want your money,” I said.
Both men looked at me.
I lifted my chin despite the pain.
“I want my wages for the hours I worked and whatever the agency policy provides. Nothing else.”
Victor moved closer to the bed.
“You have medical costs.”
“The hospital can bill me.”
“It will not.”
“Then it can bill your insurance.”
“The estate is paying.”
“I did not agree to that.”
“You were unconscious.”
“That doesn’t make my decisions yours.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
Recognition, perhaps.
Or irritation that I had not become easier to manage merely because I was injured.
Jamie looked between us.
“What exactly happened while she was unconscious?”
Victor remained focused on me.
“I ensured you received care.”
“And?”
“And I made arrangements for your protection.”
“I have protection.”
Jamie glanced toward the hallway.
“Apparently we all do now.”
Victor ignored him.
“The attack was planned by someone with knowledge of the estate’s schedule.”
The warmth left the room.
I remembered the black SUV tearing across the lawn.
“How much knowledge?”
“They knew the gate rotation. They knew Leo would be in the east wing. They knew which windows had not yet been reinforced.”
Jamie went pale.
“You think someone inside helped them.”
“Yes.”
“And because Mara survived, they may come after her.”
Victor’s silence answered.
I gripped the blanket.
“I didn’t see their faces.”
“You saw something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That is not very reassuring.”
“It was not meant to be.”
Jamie leaned forward.
“She comes home with me.”
“No,” Victor said.
The single word was calm.
Final.
I felt anger rise through the medication haze.
“You do not decide where I go.”
Victor looked at me.
“If you return to your apartment, you place yourself and your brother at risk.”
“Then we speak to the police.”
Jamie and Victor exchanged a glance.
I hated that glance.
The one men shared when they believed a woman had suggested something naïve.
“The police are investigating,” Victor said carefully.
“But?”
“But the attackers used false plates, stolen equipment, and a route that avoided city cameras.”
“That does not mean I become a prisoner at your estate.”
“No.”
His voice softened slightly.
“You will not be a prisoner.”
Jamie gave a humorless laugh.
“Six men in the hallway. No return home. No job. It has a certain atmosphere.”
Victor turned toward him.
“Your sister saved my son’s life. I will not apologize for ensuring she lives long enough to regret arguing with me.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Jamie did not.
“What are you proposing?” he asked.
Victor’s gaze returned to me.
“That she and you remain at a secure property until the threat is identified.”
“My brother needs treatment at Northwestern.”
“He will receive it.”
“We have a life.”
“You have an apartment with a broken lobby lock, overdue notices visible through the mail slot, and a landlord who enters without warning.”
My stomach dropped.
“You investigated us.”
“I secured your home.”
“You searched it.”
“I sent two people to collect clothing after your brother requested it.”
Jamie looked embarrassed.
“I gave them permission.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You were unconscious.”
I glared at both of them.
Apparently unconsciousness had become an invitation for everyone to reorganize my existence.
Victor pulled a chair closer to the bed.
“Your lease is three months behind.”
“That is none of your business.”
“Your brother’s treatment has been delayed twice because the insurer refused authorization.”
Jamie looked down.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Because after you were injured, I needed to know whether anyone could pressure you.”
The answer was practical.
It was also invasive.
“You had no right.”
“No.”
The admission surprised me.
Victor rarely apologized, but he also rarely pretended his choices were innocent.
“I did it anyway,” he continued. “And I would do it again.”
Jamie folded his arms.
“That is supposed to make us trust you?”
“No.”
“Then what is it supposed to do?”
“Help you understand that I am not asking Mara to return to the estate because I need clean floors.”
I remembered his words beside the shattered sunroom.
From this moment on, nobody touches you. You belong to me.
My pulse changed.
“Why did you say it?” I asked.
Victor became very still.
Jamie looked between us.
“Say what?”
I kept my eyes on Victor.
“You know.”
His face gave nothing away.
Yet I saw his thumb press once against the edge of the chair.
A rare sign of discomfort.
“What did he say?” Jamie asked.
Victor answered before I could.
“I told your sister she belonged to me.”
Jamie attempted to stand so quickly that his cane fell.
Pain twisted across his face.
I reached toward him and immediately regretted the movement as fire spread through my ribs.
Victor caught the cane before it struck the floor.
Jamie took it from him.
“You said what?”
“It was poorly phrased,” Victor said.
“Poorly phrased?”
“I had just found my child beneath a woman bleeding from three gunshot wounds.”
“That explains panic. It does not explain ownership.”
“You’re right,” I said.
Both men looked at me.
Victor’s expression shifted.
I continued, “It doesn’t.”
The words had stayed with me because part of them had sounded protective.
Another part sounded like every dangerous promise I had spent my life avoiding.
“My father used to say my mother belonged to him,” I said quietly. “He said it whenever she tried to leave.”
Victor’s face changed.
“He broke furniture. He controlled the money. He called possession love.”
Jamie looked away.
He remembered.
Victor lowered his head.
“I did not know.”
“No.”
“I would never—”
“You don’t get to finish that sentence for me.”
He stopped.
I took a careful breath.
“If you mean I’m protected, say protected. If you mean you feel responsible, say responsible. But I do not belong to you.”
Victor sat silently for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
“You are right.”
Jamie’s anger eased only slightly.
Victor continued.
“You do not belong to me.”
He spoke the sentence slowly, as though correcting not only his words but something older inside himself.
“You belong to yourself.”
The hospital room became quiet.
I had expected a fight.
Men like Victor were not accustomed to retracting declarations.
Yet he had done it without excuse.
“Thank you,” I said.
He leaned back.
“But the protection remains.”
“Of course it does.”
A faint line appeared between his brows.
“You say that as though I am difficult.”
Jamie and I both stared at him.
Victor seemed to reconsider.
“Fine,” he said. “We will discuss conditions.”
It was the closest thing to compromise I had ever heard from him.
The doctor arrived before the discussion could continue.
He explained that one bullet had passed through my shoulder without damaging the major nerves. The second had fractured a rib and punctured part of my lung. The third had lodged near my lower spine but missed the spinal cord by less than an inch.
“You were extremely fortunate,” he said.
I looked toward Leo, who had returned and stood beside Victor.
Fortunate was not the word I would have chosen.
“Recovery will take time,” the doctor continued. “No lifting. Limited walking. Physical therapy. You will need someone with you after discharge.”
Victor said, “She has that.”
I said, “We are discussing it.”
The doctor glanced between us and wisely continued.
After he left, Leo climbed carefully onto the chair beside my bed.
“Will you still be able to roll candy?”
“I may need practice.”
“I can help.”
Victor stood near the door, speaking quietly with one of his guards.
I watched Leo draw small circles on the paper bag with his finger.
“Were you scared last night?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He looked surprised.
“Grown-ups get scared?”
“All the time.”
“My father doesn’t.”
I glanced toward Victor.
His voice had gone low and controlled as he gave instructions, but one hand rested against the doorframe, close enough to Leo to reach him immediately.
“Your father gets scared,” I said.
Leo considered this.
“How do you know?”
“Because brave people are usually scared first.”
Victor heard me.
I could tell by the way his shoulders changed.
Leo placed one butterscotch in my palm.
“Then you were very brave.”
I closed my fingers around the candy.
“So were you.”
That afternoon, Victor’s family physician transferred Jamie’s records to a specialist at Northwestern with Jamie’s permission.
Not mine.
Jamie made sure to point that out.
The specialist confirmed his next infusion would proceed on schedule. Victor’s people arranged transportation, but Jamie insisted on paying whatever our insurance would cover.
Victor did not argue.
That surprised both of us.
Perhaps he had understood the difference between help and control.
Or perhaps he was learning.
I was discharged nine days later.
The bullets had been removed, but their absence did not mean the pain was gone. Every breath pulled against the healing wound near my ribs. My shoulder remained stiff. Walking required concentration, and exhaustion arrived without warning.
A nurse wheeled me toward a private exit.
Jamie walked beside me. Leo carried the candy bag. Victor followed with two guards several steps behind.
A black sedan waited beneath the covered entrance.
I stopped.
“Where are we going?”
Victor answered, “Lake Forest.”
“That is not the estate.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you said you would not return as a prisoner.”
“And Lake Forest is different?”
“It is a guesthouse on separate grounds. You and Jamie will have your own rooms, kitchen, and staff entrance. No one enters without permission.”
Jamie looked toward me.
“That sounds better than our apartment.”
“Our apartment is home.”
“Our apartment has mice.”
“One mouse.”
“One mouse we’ve seen.”
Victor waited.
He did not order me into the car.
The decision remained mine.
“What about Leo?” I asked.
“He will remain at the main house.”
Leo’s face fell.
“But I can visit?”
Victor looked at me before answering.
“If Mara agrees.”
The small choice mattered.
“Yes,” I said. “You can visit.”
Leo smiled.
I entered the car.
The guesthouse stood beyond a line of bare oak trees on the northern edge of the Romano property. It was smaller than the mansion but still larger than any home Jamie or I had ever occupied.
Soft lamps lit the entrance. A fire burned in the sitting room. The furniture had been rearranged to leave wide walking paths, and a temporary rail had been installed beside the staircase.
Jamie noticed immediately.
“So much for not entering without permission.”
Victor stood near the door.
“The medical team recommended the rail.”
“You could have asked,” I said.
“Yes.”
He glanced toward the staircase.
“I should have.”
The answer came more easily this time.
I leaned against my cane.
“You are not very good at this.”
“At what?”
“Letting other people choose.”
“No.”
At least he knew.
A woman named Elena had prepared soup and fresh bread in the kitchen. She introduced herself as the guesthouse manager, then handed me a written list of everyone with access to the property.
“No one else will enter unless you approve,” she said.
I looked at Victor.
He had listened.
Later, when Jamie had gone upstairs to rest, Victor remained beside the fireplace.
The house was quiet.
For the first time since the hospital, we were alone.
I lowered myself carefully onto the sofa.
“You said five words when I woke up.”
Victor’s face turned toward me.
“You’re going to be my wife.”
He did not deny it.
The memory was blurred by medication and pain, but I remembered the certainty in his voice.
“Why?”
Victor stood very still.
“It was not a proposal.”
“That is obvious.”
“I was trying to solve a problem.”
I stared at him.
“Marriage was your solution?”
“Temporarily.”
“That does not improve the explanation.”
He walked toward the window.
Outside, snow rested across the lawn in silver patches.
“In my world, protection has limits,” he said. “Employees can leave. Witnesses can be questioned. People without family connections are considered vulnerable.”
“And wives?”
“Wives are considered part of the family.”
The words were calm, but their meaning was not.
“You thought marrying me would keep people from coming after me.”
“Yes.”
“Without asking me.”
“Yes.”
“That is the worst proposal in history.”
“I have not made many.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Pain caught beneath my ribs.
Victor crossed the room immediately.
“Breathe slowly.”
“I know how to breathe.”
“You appear to be doing it badly.”
I glared at him until the pain eased.
Then I asked, “Were you serious?”
He did not answer at once.
“At the hospital,” he said, “I believed the attack came from outside the family. Now I am less certain.”
“That does not answer me.”
He looked down at his hands.
“There are legal protections available to a spouse that are not available to an employee. Access to secure property. Medical authority. Family security status.”
“You investigated marriage law while I was unconscious?”
“I had time.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I have been told worse.”
I leaned back carefully.
“You cannot turn marriage into a security badge.”
“No.”
“Or a debt because I saved Leo.”
“No.”
“Or a reward I did not request.”
“No.”
“Then why are we still discussing it?”
Victor’s pale eyes met mine.
“Because the practical reasons are not the only reasons.”
The room seemed to become warmer.
I looked away first.
He had ignored me for eight months.
Or I had believed he had.
“You never saw me,” I said.
“That is not true.”
“You barely spoke to me.”
“I knew you took your coffee with too much milk.”
I looked at him.
“I knew you arrived twenty minutes early every Monday because the first bus was unreliable. I knew you replaced the roses in the west hall with white lilies because Leo said the roses reminded him of the funeral.”
My throat tightened.
“You never said anything.”
“You preferred being invisible.”
“So you let me be.”
“Yes.”
There was unexpected gentleness in his answer.
“I knew you slipped candy to my son.”
I sat straighter.
“You knew?”
“The wrappers appeared in his pockets.”
“I thought we were careful.”
“He is six.”
“That is fair.”
Victor’s expression softened.
“I also knew he waited for you.”
The truth affected me more than it should have.
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
“Because he smiled.”
Victor looked toward the fire.
“After his mother died, he stopped smiling for months. Therapists came. Tutors came. Nannies came. Everyone tried to make him speak about grief before he knew how to name it.”
“And I gave him candy.”
“You sat on the floor and helped him build crooked towers.”
My eyes stung.
“He was lonely.”
“So were you.”
I looked at him.
“Do not pretend you know me.”
“I know you worked two jobs until your brother’s condition worsened. I know you refused the agency’s emergency fund because another employee had children and needed it more. I know you have read the same library book during lunch for three months because you cannot afford the fine for losing it.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know about the book?”
“You leave it on the laundry shelf.”
He had seen me.
Not as furniture.
Not as a uniform.
He had seen all the quiet details I thought no one noticed.
“That still does not make marriage reasonable,” I said.
“No.”
“Good.”
“But it makes my statement less sudden than you believe.”
I did not know what to do with that.
So I asked the question that frightened me more.
“Did you love your wife?”
Victor’s face closed.
“Yes.”
“Then how can you talk about marrying someone else like arranging a contract?”
“Because Sofia’s death taught me contracts are easier than promises.”
“That is a terrible answer.”
“It is an honest one.”
He moved to the chair across from me.
“Sofia and I had known each other since childhood. Our families arranged the marriage, but we built something real. She understood the life. She understood me.”
“And after she died?”
“I stopped allowing anyone close enough to become another weakness.”
“Except Leo.”
“He did not give me a choice.”
A faint smile touched my mouth.
“Children rarely do.”
Victor’s expression softened briefly.
Then it disappeared.
“The attack changed things.”
“Because I saved him?”
“Because someone knew exactly where he would be.”
The softness vanished from the room.
“What have you found?”
Victor leaned forward.
“The sunroom schedule was changed that morning.”
“By whom?”
“Leo’s nanny.”
“She was arguing with the chef.”
“She says she received a message from my office asking her to move Leo’s lessons to the sunroom.”
“Did you send it?”
“No.”
“Could someone have used your phone?”
“The message came from an internal account.”
I thought back to the minutes before the attack.
The nanny leaving the room.
The chef calling after her.
Leo arranging his cars.
A house that had seemed tense but ordinary.
“Who knew I would be there?”
Victor’s gaze sharpened.
“The housekeeping schedule placed you in the west wing.”
“But I switched with Rosa.”
“Why?”
“She had a dentist appointment.”
“Who approved the switch?”
“The house supervisor. Mrs. Carbone.”
Victor went still.
“What?”
“Mrs. Carbone was not working that day.”
“She called me.”
“No.”
“I spoke to her.”
“Describe the call.”
I tried to remember.
A woman’s voice through the service phone. Brief. Impatient.
She had said Rosa needed to leave early and told me to take the sunroom before lunch.
“I assumed it was her.”
“Did she use your name?”
“No.”
“What did she call you?”
“Girl.”
Victor’s expression darkened.
“That was not Mrs. Carbone.”
Cold moved through me.
“Someone wanted me in the sunroom.”
“Or wanted a housekeeper there.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He stood and walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To call Marco.”
“Who is Marco?”
“My security chief.”
“The one who was at the hospital?”
“No. Marco was injured during the attack.”
I remembered a man falling near the hallway entrance.
“He survived?”
“Yes.”
Victor took out his phone.
“Wait.”
He turned.
“There was something else.”
A memory surfaced slowly.
Not from the attack itself.
From earlier that morning.
A sound near the pantry.
A man’s voice.
I had been polishing silver when two people spoke beyond the partially closed service door.
One was Mrs. Carbone.
The other I did not recognize.
“The boy must be in the east room,” the man had said.
Mrs. Carbone answered, “That was not the agreement.”
Then footsteps approached, and I moved away before they saw me.
At the time, I assumed they were discussing a lesson or delivery.
Now the words sounded entirely different.
“I heard Mrs. Carbone talking to a man,” I said.
Victor lowered the phone.
“What man?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“What did he say?”
I repeated the conversation.
Victor’s face became unreadable.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you not mention this at the hospital?”
“Because I didn’t remember until now.”
He called Marco.
His instructions were calm. No shouting. No threats.
Find Mrs. Carbone. Do not approach her. Confirm whether she left the city.
When he ended the call, I said, “You think she was involved.”
“I think she knew something.”
“She has worked for your family for years.”
“Twenty-seven.”
The answer carried grief.
Trust did not break loudly with Victor.
It became another stillness.
“Go back to the mansion,” I said.
“No.”
“You need to handle this.”
“I will not leave you here with only external guards.”
“You said no one enters without permission.”
“I no longer know whose permission can be forged.”
He sat across from me again.
We remained by the fire while snow began falling outside.
For the first time, I understood that power did not mean Victor was unafraid.
It meant he had more people to fear.
An hour later, Marco called.
Victor answered on speaker after I insisted.
“We found Carbone’s car at O’Hare,” Marco said. His voice was rough with exhaustion. “She did not board a flight.”
“Where is she?”
“We don’t know.”
“Bank activity?”
“Nothing since Wednesday.”
Victor’s gaze met mine.
The attack happened Thursday.
Marco continued.
“There is more. We reviewed the staff communications. The message changing Leo’s schedule did not originate from your office.”
“Where did it originate?”
“The guesthouse.”
I looked around the quiet room.
Victor went still.
“That is impossible. The house has been empty for six months.”
“It was activated remotely through an old terminal.”
“By whom?”
“We traced the authorization code.”
Marco hesitated.
“Say it.”
“The code belonged to Sofia.”
Victor’s face lost all color.
His late wife.
The woman killed two years ago.
“That account was closed,” he said.
“It was supposed to be.”
The fire cracked loudly.
I watched grief and suspicion collide behind Victor’s eyes.
“Could someone have copied it?” I asked.
“Yes,” Marco answered. “But there is something else you should see in person.”
Victor’s voice became colder.
“What?”
“A security file from the morning of Sofia’s death. It was hidden inside the account.”
No one spoke.
Marco continued.
“The file shows a woman leaving the car two minutes before the explosion.”
Victor gripped the phone.
“What woman?”
“We cannot see her face.”
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because she was wearing Sofia’s coat.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Victor looked toward the falling snow.
His wife had died in the bombing.
Everyone knew that.
He had identified her belongings. Buried her. Raised their son in the shadow of her absence.
Marco spoke one final time.
“Victor, I don’t think Sofia was inside the car.”
The line went silent.
And in the quiet that followed, Victor Romano looked at me as if the dead had just opened a door somewhere inside his house.
