Chapter 2 - When She Woke Up, She Asked the Mafia Don to LeaveChloe Bennett woke to the sound of a machine insisting she was still alive.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
For several seconds, she couldn't remember where she was.
The ceiling was white. The air smelled of disinfectant. Something tugged at her arm, and a deep, relentless ache spread from her shoulder down to her fingertips.
She tried to sit up.
Pain exploded through her abdomen.
“Oh, absolutely not,” she whispered.
A nurse appeared beside her bed almost immediately.
“Easy. Don't try to move yet.”
Chloe stared at the woman.
“Where am I?”
“St. Catherine's Medical Center. You're in intensive care.”
The words meant nothing at first.
Then the memories returned.
The diner.
The gun.
Isabella Rossi beneath the table.
Four sharp impacts that had felt like being struck by a truck.
Chloe's breathing quickened.
“Mrs. Rossi!”
“She's safe,” the nurse assured her. “She's not injured.”
Chloe closed her eyes.
Relief came first.
Then fear.
Then the sudden, horrifying realization that she had absolutely no idea how she was going to pay for any of this.
“Wait.” She looked at the nurse again. “How long have I been here?”
“About thirty hours.”
“Thirty hours?”
“You underwent emergency surgery. You've been asleep for most of that time.”
Chloe swallowed.
“Did anyone call my apartment?”
“We have your belongings secured. Your emergency contact information was provided to the admissions team.”
“My apartment manager is going to think I've disappeared.”
The nurse gave her a sympathetic smile.
“I imagine that can be arranged.”
“And my nursing classes—”
“Miss Bennett.”
“What?”
“You were shot four times. You are allowed to worry about your classes tomorrow.”
Chloe opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Then whispered, “I hate when people are reasonable.”
The nurse laughed softly as she checked the monitors.
“Your pain medication should help. Don't try to be brave about everything, okay?”
Chloe looked at the IV in her arm.
“I'm not being brave. I'm being financially anxious.”
“Those can coexist.”
The nurse adjusted the blanket.
“There's someone outside who has been asking about you. Would you like to see him?”
Chloe's stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“Mr. Rossi.”
She stared at the nurse.
“Which one?”
“The younger one.”
Of course.
The Mafia Don himself.
Chloe let her head fall back against the pillow.
“Tell him I'm dead.”
The nurse blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Or unconscious. Or in witness protection. Whatever makes him leave.”
“I don't think I can tell him you're dead when you're speaking to me.”
“Then you're not thinking creatively.”
The nurse tried to hide a smile.
“I'll let him know you're awake.”
“That is the opposite of what I asked.”
But the nurse was already walking toward the door.
Chloe closed her eyes.
She had survived four bullets, emergency surgery, and thirty hours of unconsciousness.
Apparently, her reward was an audience with the most dangerous man in Chicago.
She had never been especially religious, but she decided it might be time to negotiate.
Vincent Rossi had been reviewing security footage when the nurse informed him that Chloe was awake.
He stood so quickly that his chair rolled backward into the wall.
“She's conscious?”
“Yes. She's alert, although she's experiencing pain and confusion.”
“Can I see her?”
“She said she doesn't want visitors.”
Vincent stopped.
The nurse regarded him with professional calm.
“She specifically asked me to tell you that she's dead.”
For a moment, Vincent said nothing.
Then he laughed.
It was a short, startled sound, so unfamiliar that the nurse looked at him twice.
“She's awake,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And she's already trying to get rid of me.”
“Yes.”
Vincent buttoned his jacket.
“Excellent.”
The nurse frowned.
“I wouldn't call it excellent.”
“You haven't met many people who can insult me before breakfast.”
“I'm not sure she considers it an accomplishment.”
“She will.”
He started toward the door.
The nurse stepped in front of him.
“Mr. Rossi.”
Vincent stopped.
“She's been through a traumatic experience. She needs rest, and she needs to feel that she has control over who enters her room.”
For once, Vincent didn't argue.
“Understood.”
“You may have five minutes, provided she agrees when you ask her.”
He looked through the glass panel at the bed.
Five minutes.
He had spent entire afternoons waiting for international business partners to finish speaking. He had once delayed a multimillion-dollar acquisition for three days simply because the other party had attempted to rush him.
Five minutes with Chloe Bennett suddenly seemed like an extravagant privilege.
He knocked gently on the open door.
Chloe turned her head.
Their eyes met.
She looked at him for approximately two seconds before speaking.
“You.”
Vincent stepped inside.
“Me.”
“I asked the nurse to tell you I was dead.”
“She mentioned that.”
“And you came anyway?”
“I wanted to verify the report personally.”
Chloe stared at him.
Then, despite the pain, she laughed.
It was a small laugh that turned into a grimace almost immediately.
Vincent moved toward the bed.
“Don't laugh. You'll hurt yourself.”
“You're not helping.”
“I've been told that before.”
He stopped beside her bed, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands.
He had negotiated with killers, faced federal investigators, and stood across tables from men who wanted him dead.
None of those experiences had prepared him for a wounded waitress who looked at him as though he were an unexpected bill.
Chloe studied his face.
“You're Vincent Rossi.”
“Yes.”
“As in the Vincent Rossi?”
“I assume there aren't many of us.”
“The man who owns half the buildings downtown?”
“Not half.”
“The man who supposedly had a councilman removed from office because he parked in your space?”
“That story is exaggerated.”
“So you admit it happened.”
“I admit the parking was unacceptable.”
Chloe stared at him for another moment.
Then her expression changed.
The humor faded.
“Mrs. Rossi is really okay?”
“Yes. She's safe.”
“Good.”
Her eyes grew wet, and she turned toward the window before he could comment.
Vincent said nothing.
He had learned that silence could be more useful than comfort. People often revealed the truth when they were not being pressured to explain themselves.
After a moment, Chloe wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
“I didn't mean to become involved in whatever this is.”
“I know.”
“I don't know anything about your family. I don't know who wanted to hurt her. I don't know why someone would walk into a restaurant and start shooting.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why are you here?”
The question was quiet.
Vincent answered just as quietly.
“Because you saved my mother's life.”
Chloe looked at him.
“And you feel guilty.”
He didn't respond immediately.
She sighed.
“I can see it on your face.”
“You've known me for approximately three minutes.”
“Four. And you have the expression of a man who thinks he can fix anything by paying for it.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
“Is that what you think I'm doing?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
She looked unconvinced.
“Then let me be clear,” he said. “Your medical expenses will be covered. You'll receive whatever rehabilitation your doctors recommend. You won't owe me anything.”
Chloe's expression hardened.
“I didn't ask you to do that.”
“I know.”
“Then don't make decisions about my life without asking me.”
The words struck him with surprising force.
He had expected gratitude, suspicion, perhaps even fear.
He had not expected a lecture on personal autonomy from a woman who could barely lift her head.
“You're right,” he said.
Chloe blinked.
“What?”
“You're right. I should have asked.”
For the first time since entering the room, she looked genuinely surprised.
Vincent pulled a chair closer but didn't sit.
“Would you allow me to cover your medical expenses?”
She studied him carefully.
“Why?”
“Because you were injured protecting my mother. Because I have the resources to help, and because I would like to.”
“That sounds suspiciously like guilt.”
“Perhaps it is partly guilt.”
“At least you're honest.”
“I'm trying.”
She looked down at the blanket.
“I don't want to owe you anything.”
“You won't.”
“And I don't want your men following me around.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“That's a more complicated issue.”
“Of course it is.”
“The man who attacked Isabella may know that you survived. Until we understand his motives, there could be a risk.”
“I don't even know who he was.”
“That's precisely why I need to take this seriously.”
Chloe stared at the ceiling.
“So I save one old woman, and now my life becomes a crime documentary.”
“Potentially.”
“You're terrible at reassurance.”
“I've been told that, too.”
She turned back toward him.
“Mr. Rossi.”
“Vincent.”
“I am not joining your family. I'm not becoming a witness in some dramatic courtroom scene unless I have to. And I'm certainly not getting involved with whatever war you have going on.”
Vincent's gaze held hers.
“I wouldn't ask you to.”
“Good.”
“But I need to know whether you saw anything that might help identify the shooter.”
Chloe thought carefully.
She remembered the raincoat. The gun. The way the man had moved through the entrance without hesitation.
“I saw his face for a second. Not clearly. He was wearing a hat, and everything happened so fast.”
“Anything else?”
“He looked at Mrs. Rossi before he raised the gun. He didn't seem surprised to see her.”
Vincent's expression darkened.
“Anything about his voice?”
“He didn't say anything.”
She paused.
“Wait.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“What?”
“When he came through the door, he brushed past one of the guards. The guard looked at him like he recognized him.”
Vincent went completely still.
“Are you certain?”
“Not certain. I thought it was strange, but I assumed the guard knew a customer.”
“What did the guard do?”
“He turned away.”
Vincent's face became unreadable.
“Which guard?”
“The one near the front door. Taller than the other one. Gray at the temples.”
Vincent took out his phone.
Chloe's eyes widened.
“Are you calling someone to kill him?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Chloe.”
“I'm just asking. Your reputation is not exactly comforting.”
He put the phone away.
“I won't authorize violence against someone based on an uncertain observation.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
“That's good.”
“I'm glad you approve.”
“Don't get used to it.”
Something about the exchange eased the tension in the room.
Then Chloe shifted slightly, and pain flashed across her face.
Vincent stood immediately.
“Should I call the nurse?”
“No. Just give me a second.”
He waited.
She breathed through the pain until it subsided.
When she looked up again, her expression had changed.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Is my father going to be angry?”
Vincent frowned.
“Your father?”
“Not that he's alive to be angry. He died two years ago.”
Her voice became quieter.
“I was supposed to finish nursing school last spring. He got sick, and I had to take time off to help him. Then the hospital bills came, and I started working more hours. I thought I'd catch up eventually.”
She looked away.
“I haven't told my academic adviser how far behind I am. I keep thinking I'll find a way to fix everything before anyone notices.”
Vincent said nothing.
“I don't want this to be another thing I can't fix,” she continued. “I don't want to spend the next year being known as the girl who got shot because she couldn't mind her own business.”
“You won't be.”
“You can't promise that.”
“No,” he admitted. “I can't.”
She looked back at him.
“That's the first thing you've said that I actually believe.”
Vincent felt something shift inside him.
Not affection. Not yet.
Something closer to respect.
Chloe Bennett was frightened, injured, and exhausted. Yet she was still trying to negotiate the terms under which the world would be allowed to change her.
He understood that impulse more than he wanted to admit.
“Then I'll promise you something I can control,” he said.
She waited.
“I won't give your name to the press. I won't discuss your medical situation with anyone outside the people who need to know. And I won't make decisions about your future without your consent.”
Chloe considered him.
“Thank you.”
It was the first sincere expression of gratitude she had offered him.
Vincent found himself valuing it more than he should.
A nurse appeared at the doorway.
“Mr. Rossi, your five minutes are up.”
Chloe looked at the clock.
“Only five minutes? It felt like an hour.”
Vincent almost smiled.
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“Don't.”
He moved toward the door.
“Chloe?”
She looked at him.
“I'm glad you woke up.”
For once, there was no command in his voice.
No attempt to control the outcome.
Just a simple statement of fact.
Her expression softened.
“I'm glad your mother is okay.”
He nodded and left.
Behind him, Chloe watched the door close.
She had expected a monster.
What unsettled her was the possibility that Vincent Rossi was more complicated than the stories suggested.
And complicated people, she was beginning to suspect, were far more dangerous than monsters.
Two hours later, Vincent was in the hospital's private conference room when Marco entered with a tablet.
“We checked the security footage.”
“And?”
“The guard Chloe described is Daniel Price. He's been with us for eleven years.”
“Was he at the diner?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“Under observation. He claims he never saw the shooter.”
Vincent held out his hand for the tablet.
Marco displayed a still image from the diner camera.
Daniel stood beside the entrance, his head turned toward the street.
Three seconds later, Tommy O'Connor appeared in the doorway.
The footage was grainy, but the sequence was unmistakable.
Daniel looked directly at Tommy.
Then he stepped aside.
Vincent watched the clip twice.
“Bring him in for questioning.”
“Quietly?”
“Very.”
Marco hesitated.
“There's another problem. Someone has already contacted the local press.”
Vincent looked up.
“What did they say?”
“They have an unnamed source claiming a waitress was shot protecting Isabella Rossi. They're asking whether the attack was connected to an ongoing feud between our family and the Morettis.”
“Who gave them the information?”
“We're investigating.”
Vincent stood.
“Get legal counsel ready. No statements about Chloe without her permission.”
“And the family?”
“Tell them nothing until we have evidence.”
Marco nodded.
Vincent looked once more at the image on the tablet.
Daniel Price had been paid to guard his mother.
Instead, he had moved aside for the man who tried to kill her.
For eleven years, Vincent had trusted him.
That trust had nearly cost Isabella her life.
Now another question demanded an answer.
If Daniel had betrayed the family, who had paid him?
And why had they been willing to leave a young waitress bleeding on the floor to ensure that Isabella Rossi never left the restaurant alive?
Vincent closed the tablet.
“Find the money,” he ordered. “Every transfer, every account, every person who touched it.”
Marco headed for the door.
“Marco.”
He turned.
“Keep Chloe's name out of this investigation. She has already done more than anyone had the right to ask of her.”
Marco nodded.
When the door closed, Vincent remained alone.
He had spent his adult life believing that loyalty could be purchased, enforced, or inherited.
Chloe had reminded him that genuine courage was something else entirely.
May you like
And if the world intended to punish her for it, Vincent Rossi would have to decide what kind of man he was willing to become to stop it.
For the first time in years, that decision frightened him more than the prospect of war.
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