Chapter 4 - The Night Vincent Rossi Asked Her to Trust HimThe hospital lockdown lasted forty-seven minutes.
For Chloe, it felt like four hours.
Two security officers stood outside her room while nurses checked identification badges and hospital administrators reviewed the corridor cameras. Her phone had been placed in a plastic evidence bag because it might contain messages relevant to the investigation, although no one had explained what she was supposed to do without it.
At 12:17 a.m., Vincent Rossi finally entered her room.
He looked different.
His tie was gone. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and there was a fresh crease between his eyebrows. He carried no folder, no expensive gift, and no carefully prepared explanation.
He simply walked to her bed and stopped.
“Are you hurt?”
Chloe stared at him.
“I'm in a hospital because I was shot four times. What do you think?”
His jaw tightened.
“Has anyone touched you? Tried to enter the room?”
“No. The nurses have been wonderful. Your security people look as if they're expecting an army to come through the ceiling, but otherwise, it's been a quiet evening.”
“Someone photographed you while you were sleeping.”
Her amusement disappeared.
“What?”
Vincent showed her the photograph on his phone.
It was unmistakably her. She lay beneath the hospital blankets, one hand resting beside the IV line. The image had been taken from just outside her room.
Chloe felt cold.
“Who took it?”
“We don't know.”
“Can they get inside?”
“They shouldn't be able to.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
“I know.”
She looked at him, waiting for the confident declaration that he would handle everything.
He didn't make one.
Instead, he pulled a chair toward the bed.
“I'm going to tell you what we know, what we don't know, and what I can offer. Then you can decide what you want to do.”
Chloe blinked.
“Who are you, and what have you done with Vincent Rossi?”
“I assure you, I'm still here.”
“It's just that you seem to have discovered the concept of asking permission.”
“I've been told it's useful.”
“By Isabella?”
“Among others.”
Chloe managed a small smile, but the fear remained.
“Tell me.”
Vincent explained the suspicious behavior of Daniel Price, the possibility of an inside accomplice, and the unknown caller who had sent the photograph.
He did not tell her that his men had already identified three possible leaks within the hospital's security network. He wanted confirmation before frightening her with speculation.
When he finished, Chloe was silent.
“Someone wants to hurt me because I saved your mother.”
“Someone may want to use you to influence me.”
“What's the difference?”
Vincent considered the question.
“Intent.”
“That sounds like the kind of distinction people make when they want to sleep at night.”
He accepted the criticism without protest.
“Yes,” he said. “Sometimes it is.”
Chloe turned toward the window.
Outside, the city glittered beneath the rain. She could see a sliver of the Chicago River between two buildings, its dark surface reflecting the lights of passing traffic.
“I want to go home.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don't think you do. I want my own bed. I want my old coffee machine that takes three attempts to work. I want to complain about my upstairs neighbor playing music at midnight. I want to be able to walk down the street without wondering whether the person behind me has a gun.”
Vincent listened.
“I know my apartment isn't secure,” she continued. “I know I might be in danger. But I cannot spend every waking minute living inside somebody else's plan.”
He looked at her for a long time.
“What if we found a compromise?”
“Define compromise.”
“You choose a temporary apartment. You bring someone you trust to inspect it. You decide which security measures you're comfortable with. My team handles the arrangements only after you've approved them.”
“And if I want to go somewhere without your permission?”
“You don't need my permission.”
She watched him carefully.
“Would you follow me?”
“If I believed you were in immediate danger, I would arrange protection. But I would tell you what I was doing.”
“That isn't quite the same as leaving me alone.”
“No,” he admitted. “It isn't.”
Chloe sighed.
“At least you're learning.”
“Slowly.”
She looked down at her hands.
“What happens if I refuse everything?”
Vincent's expression became serious.
“Then I explain the risks as clearly as I can, offer whatever help you accept, and respect your decision.”
“Even if you think it's stupid?”
“Especially then.”
For several seconds, Chloe didn't speak.
She had expected pressure. She had expected him to remind her that he was powerful, wealthy, and accustomed to making decisions that other people followed.
Instead, he had offered her the one thing she had feared losing.
A choice.
“Okay,” she said eventually. “I'll consider a temporary apartment.”
Vincent nodded.
“But I want one more thing.”
“Name it.”
“I want to speak to the police without your people sitting outside the door listening to every word.”
“You can.”
“And I want my own attorney.”
“I'll provide a list of independent attorneys, if you'd like. You can choose someone else entirely, too.”
Chloe's shoulders relaxed slightly.
“Thank you.”
He stood.
“I'll arrange the meeting.”
“Vincent?”
He turned.
She hesitated.
“Are you going to find the person who did this?”
“Yes.”
“And what happens when you do?”
The question hung between them.
Vincent could have lied. He could have offered the easy reassurance that justice would prevail and everyone would be safe.
Instead, he gave her the truth.
“I don't know yet.”
Chloe studied his face.
“That's frightening.”
“Yes.”
“Good. I was beginning to think you didn't feel anything.”
His expression shifted.
“I feel more than you think.”
“Then you should probably work on showing it.”
He left before she could see how deeply the words had affected him.
The following afternoon, Chloe met Detective Elena Ramirez in a private consultation room.
Ramirez was in her late thirties, with tired eyes, a sharp mind, and the unhurried manner of someone who had spent years listening to people lie.
She introduced herself, explained Chloe's rights, and confirmed that the interview was voluntary.
Vincent remained outside.
For the first time since the shooting, Chloe found herself grateful for his absence.
“Let's start with the man who fired the gun,” Ramirez said.
Chloe described the raincoat, the suppressed weapon, and the shooter's movements. She explained what she had seen Daniel Price do near the entrance.
The detective took notes without interrupting.
“Did Mr. Rossi discuss the incident with you before this interview?”
“He told me what his security team found. He didn't tell me what to say.”
“Has he offered you money?”
“He offered to cover my medical expenses.”
“Did you accept?”
“I agreed to consider the arrangement. I haven't signed anything.”
Ramirez looked up.
“Why not?”
“Because I don't want to feel as if I owe him my future.”
The detective's expression softened.
“That's a reasonable concern.”
Chloe hesitated.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think the police can protect me?”
Ramirez didn't rush to answer.
“We can investigate the attack, collect evidence, and take reasonable steps to keep you safe. I won't promise you protection we cannot guarantee.”
Chloe let out a slow breath.
“Everyone keeps telling me what they can't promise.”
“It's better than discovering later that they promised something impossible.”
For the first time that afternoon, Chloe felt she was speaking to someone who understood her.
Ramirez closed her notebook.
“One more question. If you remember anything else, even something that seems insignificant, contact me directly.”
“Will I be allowed to leave the hospital?”
“When your doctors discharge you. Your medical needs come first.”
“And after that?”
“We'll discuss your options. You don't have to decide everything today.”
Chloe nodded.
The interview lasted another twenty minutes.
When it ended, Detective Ramirez shook her hand and left through the consultation room's side door.
Vincent was waiting in the corridor.
“Well?” he asked.
“She was nice.”
“I'm glad.”
“She also told me not to trust promises that cannot be guaranteed.”
Vincent looked at her.
“She's a good detective.”
“You sound almost disappointed.”
“Not at all.”
Chloe studied him.
“Did you stay outside the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Were you listening?”
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Really?”
“I could hear you speaking. I couldn't hear the conversation clearly enough to follow it.”
“That's a very specific answer.”
“I have learned that you're suspicious of vague ones.”
She smiled.
It was the first time she had smiled at him without immediately disguising it as sarcasm.
Vincent noticed.
He wished he hadn't.
Because now he wanted to see it again.
That evening, Isabella insisted on bringing dinner to Chloe's room.
The hospital had prepared a carefully balanced meal approved by the nutrition team. Isabella ignored it completely and arrived with homemade chicken soup, fresh bread, and a small container of grated Parmesan.
“Don't tell the nurses,” she said.
Chloe looked at the containers.
“Mrs. Rossi, I could kiss you.”
“Please don't. My son might interpret it as a declaration of war.”
From the doorway, Vincent said, “I heard that.”
“Good,” Isabella replied. “Then you can carry the bread.”
He took the bag without arguing.
Chloe watched him place it on the table.
“Do you always obey your mother?”
“When she has soup, yes.”
“Smart man.”
Isabella settled beside Chloe and began pouring soup into a bowl.
For a while, the three of them talked about ordinary things.
Isabella told a story about Vincent breaking his arm when he was nine and insisting that he could still win a swimming competition.
“He refused to leave the pool,” she said. “The lifeguard had to threaten to call his father.”
“I was fine,” Vincent protested.
“You were crying.”
“I was not.”
“You asked me to promise not to tell anyone.”
Chloe laughed.
Vincent looked at her with mock betrayal.
“I see how this works. I provide protection, and you repay me by joining forces with my mother.”
“I'm a quick learner.”
Isabella smiled at them.
But when the laughter faded, she grew thoughtful.
“Chloe, my husband used to believe that fear was something a person could eliminate by becoming more powerful than everyone else.”
“Did it work?”
“No. He simply became surrounded by people who were afraid of him.”
Vincent looked down at his hands.
“My son inherited some of that belief.”
“Ma.”
“I'm not criticizing you,” Isabella said. “I'm reminding you.”
She turned back to Chloe.
“Power can make a person feel safe, but it can also make everyone around them afraid to speak honestly. That is a lonely way to live.”
Chloe glanced at Vincent.
For once, he didn't look angry about his mother's words.
He looked tired.
“You don't have to protect me from every difficult thing in the world,” Chloe told him.
His gaze lifted.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“I'm beginning to.”
Something passed between them.
It wasn't a declaration. It wasn't a promise.
It was the fragile recognition that both of them were trying to learn a language neither had ever been taught.
At 10:45 p.m., Vincent walked Chloe to the small sitting area outside her room after her physical therapist approved a short, supervised walk.
She moved slowly, one hand gripping a walking aid, the other resting near her abdomen.
He stayed beside her without touching her.
When she stumbled slightly, every instinct in him demanded that he catch her.
He waited.
Chloe steadied herself.
“See?” she said. “I can walk.”
“I see.”
“You looked ready to call six paramedics.”
“Four.”
She smiled.
They reached the window at the end of the corridor.
Chicago spread beneath them, bright and distant.
“Can I ask you something personal?” Chloe said.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
Vincent looked at her in surprise.
“That is personal.”
“You can decline to answer.”
He considered lying.
Instead, he leaned against the windowsill.
“I've cared about people. I've had relationships. But I've never been certain that anyone could love me without being afraid of what I represent.”
Chloe looked at him carefully.
“And do you think that's possible?”
“I don't know.”
“Maybe you should let someone decide for themselves.”
He turned toward her.
“You make everything sound simple.”
“No. I make it sound possible. There's a difference.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Chloe's legs began to tremble.
Vincent immediately moved closer.
“Let's get you back to bed.”
“Don't start.”
“Your physical therapist told you to walk for five minutes.”
“I walked for six.”
“And now you're shaking.”
“Because I'm recovering from being shot, not because I'm weak.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
He wasn't arguing.
He was simply standing there, ready to help if she asked.
Chloe held out her hand.
“Okay,” she whispered. “You can help me back.”
Vincent took her hand gently.
He did not pull her forward or hurry her steps. He matched his pace to hers, waiting whenever she needed to stop.
It was the smallest thing.
Yet Chloe found herself thinking about it long after he left.
For a man accustomed to controlling entire rooms, Vincent Rossi was learning to walk beside someone.
Not ahead of her.
Not behind her.
Beside her.
And for the first time, Chloe wondered what it might feel like to trust him.
May you like
Not because he could protect her.
But because he might finally understand that she had the right to choose whether she wanted his protection at all.
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