Chapter 3 - The Price of ProtectionThree days after Chloe Bennett woke up, Vincent Rossi discovered that protecting someone was considerably more complicated than keeping a gunman away from her hospital room.
The first problem was that Chloe refused to cooperate with his security team.
The second was that she had developed an unreasonable attachment to the hospital's terrible coffee.
The third was that she had apparently decided Vincent himself was the greatest threat to her peace of mind.
“You cannot be serious.”
Chloe stared at the black folder sitting on her hospital table.
Vincent stood beside the window, wearing a charcoal suit and the expression of a man accustomed to having his decisions accepted without discussion.
“I assure you, I am.”
She opened the folder.
Inside were photographs of three apartments, each more expensive than anything she had ever considered renting. There were floor plans, security assessments, and a list of amenities that included a private elevator, reinforced windows, and a doorman available twenty-four hours a day.
Chloe slowly closed the folder.
“Did you buy me a building?”
“No.”
“Did you buy me an apartment?”
“No.”
“Then why am I looking at a document that says the monthly rent on this place is more than my annual income?”
“Because I would like you to have options.”
“These aren't options. These are the kinds of places people live when they have their own financial adviser.”
“You would be surprised how many people live beyond their means.”
“I would be surprised if you knew what living within your means looked like.”
Vincent's mouth twitched.
It was becoming a problem.
He had begun to anticipate her insults with something dangerously close to amusement.
“You need somewhere secure,” he said.
“I have an apartment.”
“Your apartment is on the third floor of a building with a broken front entrance, two unsecured rear doors, and a landlord who hasn't replaced the hallway cameras in eighteen months.”
Chloe blinked.
“How do you know that?”
“Marco conducted a security assessment.”
“Marco entered my home?”
“With your landlord's permission.”
“Without mine?”
Vincent paused.
The room grew quiet.
Chloe pushed the folder away.
“Do you understand how disturbing that is?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he repeated, more quietly. “And I should have asked you first.”
She had not expected him to concede the point so easily. It left her with nowhere to direct the anger she had been carefully cultivating.
She folded her arms, then immediately regretted the movement when pain pulled at her shoulder.
Vincent noticed.
“Careful.”
“Stop telling me to be careful.”
“Stop injuring yourself while making a point.”
“I was shot four times. I think I've earned the right to make a point.”
“You have.”
For a moment, they looked at each other.
Then Chloe sighed.
“Look, I understand that someone might come after me. I'm not stupid. But I can't spend the rest of my life living behind reinforced windows because your family has enemies.”
“You won't spend the rest of your life doing that.”
“You don't know that.”
“No,” he admitted. “I don't.”
She studied him.
“Why are you doing this yourself? Surely you have people who handle these things.”
“I do.”
“Then why are you here?”
The question was beginning to irritate him for reasons he couldn't explain.
Because his mother slept better when he visited Chloe.
Because he found himself checking the hospital's security reports before reading the day's financial briefings.
Because every time his phone rang unexpectedly, he wondered whether someone was calling to tell him she had stopped breathing.
Instead, he said, “Because this situation concerns me personally.”
“That sounds like a business answer.”
“It's the answer I have.”
Chloe looked down at the folder again.
“What if I choose somewhere ordinary?”
“Then we'll make it as secure as possible.”
“And what if I decide to stay with a friend?”
“We can discuss the risks and arrange appropriate precautions, if you want them.”
“And what if I tell you to stop trying to organize my entire existence?”
Vincent considered her.
“Then I will have to learn to tolerate disappointment.”
Chloe laughed despite herself.
It hurt.
She pressed a hand against her abdomen.
“God, I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
She stared at him.
“You're extraordinarily confident for a man who has known me for three days.”
“I have excellent instincts.”
“You have expensive instincts. There is a difference.”
He finally smiled.
It transformed his face in a way Chloe found deeply inconvenient.
She looked away first.
“Fine,” she said. “I'll consider the apartment situation. But I want to see the places myself, and I want to bring someone who doesn't work for you.”
“Agreed.”
“And I want to know what your security people are doing.”
“I'll have Marco explain the arrangements.”
“To me. Not through you.”
Vincent nodded.
“To you.”
“And no one gets to follow me into the bathroom.”
His expression became perfectly serious.
“I hadn't planned on that.”
“I'm establishing boundaries.”
“An admirable habit.”
“Don't patronize me.”
“I wouldn't dare.”
Chloe narrowed her eyes.
“You absolutely would.”
He left the folder on the table.
For the first time since the shooting, Chloe felt that the conversation had accomplished something useful.
She had not won freedom.
But she had secured a small piece of it.
For now, that would have to be enough.
Isabella Rossi visited that afternoon carrying a bouquet of yellow tulips and a paper bag from a bakery on Taylor Street.
Chloe's face lit up at the sight of the bag.
“Please tell me those are cannoli.”
“Two cannoli, one almond biscuit, and a small piece of lemon cake.”
“You're my favorite person in this hospital.”
Isabella laughed and placed the flowers on the windowsill.
“Vincent was here this morning.”
“I know.”
“He told me you were difficult.”
Chloe looked scandalized.
“I am recovering from multiple gunshot wounds.”
“I told him the same thing.”
“Thank you.”
“He also told me you refused his apartment arrangements.”
“Of course he did.”
Isabella settled into the chair beside the bed.
“May I tell you something without you becoming offended?”
“That depends on what you're going to say.”
“My son has always confused responsibility with control.”
Chloe glanced toward the door.
“That's a polite way of putting it.”
“He believes that if he can organize every variable, he can prevent the people he loves from suffering.”
“Does it work?”
“No.”
“Then you might want to tell him.”
“I have been telling him since he was six years old.”
Chloe smiled.
Isabella opened the bakery bag.
“You remind me of someone.”
“Someone good, I hope.”
“Someone stubborn.”
“That sounds less promising.”
“My husband used to say stubborn women were the reason intelligent men rarely died of boredom.”
Chloe considered that.
“Your husband sounds like he knew what he was talking about.”
“He did, occasionally.”
Isabella handed her a small piece of lemon cake.
For several minutes, they talked about ordinary things.
Chloe told her about nursing school, her father's illness, and the small apartment she had shared with memories she wasn't quite ready to leave behind.
Isabella listened without interrupting.
When Chloe finished, the older woman folded her hands in her lap.
“You must understand something about my family,” she said. “People will try to make what happened to you into a story that serves them.”
“Like what?”
“Some will call you a hero. Some will call you foolish. Some will suggest that you planned it, that you wanted money, or that Vincent has somehow purchased your loyalty.”
Chloe's expression hardened.
“People can think whatever they want.”
“Unfortunately, people who think they know your story can become very dangerous when they have power.”
Chloe looked at the flowers.
“I didn't save you for a reward.”
“I know.”
“I didn't even think about your last name.”
“That is why I am grateful.”
Isabella reached across the bed and gently touched Chloe's hand.
“But gratitude does not give me ownership over you. Neither does Vincent's guilt. You must remember that when people begin offering you things you never asked for.”
Chloe swallowed.
“Why are you being so kind to me?”
Isabella's expression softened.
“Because you saved my life. Because you have a good heart. And because my son is going to need someone who reminds him that people are not pieces on a chessboard.”
“I'm not sure I'm qualified for that job.”
“Neither was I when I married his father.”
There was a sadness in her voice that Chloe couldn't quite identify.
Before she could ask about it, Isabella stood.
“I should let you rest.”
“Can you do me one favor?”
“Of course.”
“Tell Vincent that if he tries to buy me a car, I'm throwing it into Lake Michigan.”
Isabella burst out laughing.
“I shall tell him immediately.”
That evening, Marco DeLuca arrived with an update.
The security chief was carrying a thin file, and his usual composure had acquired a harder edge.
“Mr. Rossi asked me to explain the arrangements directly to you,” he said.
Chloe adjusted the pillows behind her back.
“Does he always follow instructions this quickly?”
“Only when someone else gives them.”
She smiled.
Marco placed the file on the table.
“Your hospital room has two security officers stationed outside. They rotate every four hours. No one can enter the unit without hospital authorization. We have also arranged secure transport for your discharge.”
“Am I being watched?”
“Not inside your room. Outside, yes, for your protection.”
“Will I be able to go to nursing school?”
“If your doctors approve it, we can arrange safe transportation and discuss what level of security you're comfortable with.”
Chloe considered him.
“You're more reasonable than your boss.”
“Most people are.”
She laughed, then winced.
Marco waited until she settled.
“There is something else,” he said.
“Of course there is.”
“We identified the guard you described. His name is Daniel Price. He has worked for the Rossi family for eleven years.”
“Was he involved?”
“We believe he may have deliberately allowed the shooter to enter. The evidence is still being reviewed.”
Chloe's face grew pale.
“I thought I recognized him.”
“You did. Your observation helped us identify a serious security failure.”
“Did he know Mrs. Rossi would be there?”
“We don't know yet.”
Chloe looked down at her hands.
She remembered the gunman stepping through the door, the quiet determination in his movements, the way the world seemed to slow before the bullets struck her.
“Is he going to hurt someone else?”
Marco answered carefully.
“We're taking steps to prevent that.”
She looked up.
“That's not the same as answering my question.”
“No,” he admitted. “It isn't.”
For a moment, she studied the man who had spent more than a decade protecting one of Chicago's most powerful families.
Then she asked, “Do you think Vincent is a good man?”
Marco seemed genuinely surprised.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I think he's trying to do the right thing. But I also think he's capable of things I don't understand.”
Marco pulled the chair closer.
“Mr. Rossi is not an uncomplicated man.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No. It's the most honest one I can give you.”
Chloe nodded slowly.
“I appreciate that.”
Marco stood.
“Your safety matters to him.”
“I know.”
“But I would advise you not to mistake his concern for an obligation to him.”
She looked at him sharply.
“Did Vincent tell you to say that?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I have worked for powerful men long enough to know that gratitude can become a chain if no one is careful.”
After Marco left, Chloe sat quietly for a long time.
She thought about the apartment folder, the hospital bills, and the way Vincent had looked at her when she told him to stop making decisions for her.
She was beginning to understand that the danger surrounding the Rossi family was not limited to bullets and enemies.
It was also the temptation to let someone else solve every problem.
Especially when that person had enough money to make the problems disappear.
Chloe had spent two years trying to regain control of her life after her father's death.
She would not surrender it simply because a handsome, dangerous man believed he knew how to protect her.
Even if, against her better judgment, she had begun to look forward to seeing him.
At 11:30 p.m., Vincent received a call from an unknown number.
He answered without speaking.
A distorted voice emerged from the other end.
“Your mother was supposed to die.”
Vincent's entire body went still.
“Who is this?”
“You know who I am.”
“No,” Vincent said. “But I know you're a coward.”
A soft laugh came through the speaker.
“The girl complicated things.”
Vincent's hand tightened around the phone.
“If you go anywhere near her—”
“You sound worried.”
“I sound like a man offering you one opportunity to make a sensible decision.”
“And what would that be?”
“Tell me who hired you.”
The caller laughed again.
Then the line went dead.
Vincent stared at the phone.
A message appeared seconds later.
It contained a photograph of Chloe sleeping in her hospital bed.
Taken from the corridor outside her room.
Beneath it were six words.
You cannot protect her forever, Vincent.
He immediately called Marco.
“Lock down the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Someone photographed Chloe's room.”
Marco's voice sharpened.
“I'm on my way.”
Vincent walked toward the door.
His mother had been right.
The girl was not a debt.
She was a person.
And someone had just made it clear that they intended to use her as leverage against him.
He would not allow that to happen.
But as he stepped into the corridor, another thought settled coldly into his mind.
The person who had taken the photograph knew where Chloe was.
Which meant the enemy was not merely watching the Rossi family.
May you like
The enemy was watching the hospital itself.
And somewhere inside the building, someone had decided that Chloe Bennett was worth risking another murder.
Related Stories
