Chapter 3 - The Price of Saving a Dangerous Man
By six in the morning, Mave Collins had scrubbed the floor three times.
The blood beneath booth four had dried into the narrow seams between the linoleum tiles, turning the cheap flooring into a patchwork of dark red stains. The upholstery was ruined. One table leg had cracked when the bodyguards dragged the stretcher through the narrow aisle, and a chair near the entrance had been knocked onto its side.
Mave stood in the center of the diner with a mop in her hands and a headache spreading behind her eyes.
She had not slept.
Toby had fallen asleep again on the office cot, exhausted by the strange commotion but reassured by his mother's familiar voice. Mave had tucked the blanket around him, kissed his forehead, and promised they would have pancakes when he woke up.
She had made that promise before remembering that the refrigerator contained half a carton of milk, three eggs, and enough pancake mix for perhaps two servings.
She would have to stop at the grocery store after her shift.
If the diner survived the night.
Her phone vibrated against the counter.
Mave nearly dropped the mop.
She stared at the unfamiliar number on the screen.
For several seconds, she considered ignoring it.
Then it vibrated again.
She answered without speaking.
“Ms. Collins?”
A man's voice.
Not Dominic's.
“Yes?”
“My name is Nathaniel Bell. We met a few hours ago.”
The doctor.
Mave glanced at the windows. The rain had stopped, leaving the parking lot glistening beneath the pale morning sky.
“Is he dead?”
There was a pause.
“No. The surgery went well, considering the circumstances. He's in intensive care at a private facility.”
Mave felt her shoulders loosen.
She had not realized how tightly she had been holding herself together until that moment.
“Oh.”
“He wanted me to tell you that.”
“I'm glad he's alive.”
“I thought you might be.”
She returned to the floor, dragging the mop through another streak of diluted blood.
“Then I suppose we're finished.”
“Not quite.”
Her shoulders stiffened again.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Mr. Varga has asked me to make sure you're safe.”
“I'm safe.”
“Ms. Collins, three men attempted to kill him last night. Two succeeded in shooting him, and the third is believed to have coordinated the attack. His associates are currently trying to determine whether the shooting was an isolated incident or part of a larger operation.”
“Again, that's not my problem.”
“It may become your problem if someone discovers you treated him.”
Mave stopped moving.
The refrigerator hummed behind her.
Somewhere outside, a delivery truck reversed with three sharp beeps.
“Why would anyone care about what happened in a diner?”
“Because the people responsible for the shooting do not know how much you saw, what you heard, or what Dominic told you while he was conscious.”
“He told me not to touch his phone.”
Dr. Bell fell silent.
Then he sighed.
“That sounds like him.”
Mave leaned against the counter.
“Doctor, I have a child. I have a job. I have rent due in five days. I do not have the luxury of becoming involved in whatever war your patient is fighting.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His answer came too quickly to sound entirely convincing.
“But understanding your position doesn't change the danger. Dominic wants to offer you temporary protection.”
“I don't want it.”
“He anticipated that answer.”
“Then why did he send you to ask?”
“He asked me to explain the situation before he contacted you himself.”
Mave rubbed her forehead.
She had a terrible feeling that this was how the rest of her life would unfold: a series of conversations with men who believed that providing information was the same thing as obtaining permission.
“Tell him something for me.”
“Of course.”
“Tell him I saved his life because he was bleeding in front of me. I didn't do it because I wanted money, favors, or protection. I did it because I couldn't stand there and watch someone die.”
“I'll tell him.”
“And tell him to stay away from my son.”
This time, Dr. Bell did not answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice had lost some of its professional distance.
“I'll tell him that, too.”
The call ended.
Mave stood motionless for several seconds.
Then she deleted the number from her call history.
It was a small, useless gesture, but it made her feel slightly more in control.
She finished cleaning the floor, placed a handwritten sign on the front door announcing that the diner would open late, and carried a bucket of dirty water into the kitchen.
At seven fifteen, her phone rang again.
This time, it was her landlord.
“Mave, I need the rent by Friday.”
She closed her eyes.
“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Peterson.”
“Don't get smart with me. I've been patient.”
“You've been patient for three days.”
“And those three days are almost over.”
She gripped the phone.
“I'll have it.”
“You said that last month.”
“I know.”
“I can't keep making exceptions.”
Mave looked toward the office.
Toby was still asleep.
She lowered her voice.
“I understand.”
“Friday, Mave. No excuses.”
The call ended.
She stared at the phone until the screen went dark.
The irony was almost funny.
She had spent the night saving a man who could probably purchase her entire apartment building without checking his bank balance.
And she still had to beg her landlord for three extra days.
She could have accepted the money Dominic had offered.
She could have told herself that it was payment for the medical assistance she had provided, compensation for the ruined diner, or reimbursement for the sleepless night.
Instead, she had sent him away.
Pride was an expensive thing when you were poor.
Sometimes it was the only thing you owned.
At eight o'clock, Mave woke Toby, changed him into clean clothes, and packed the little backpack he carried to kindergarten.
He complained about the cereal.
He complained about his shoes.
He complained that the stuffed dinosaur needed to sit beside him in the car rather than inside his backpack.
Mave listened to every complaint with an affection so fierce that it almost hurt.
Normal problems.
Ordinary problems.
The kind of problems she understood.
She dropped him at kindergarten just before nine and returned to the diner, where her manager had left three unanswered messages demanding to know why she had not opened on time.
Mave called him back.
She told him there had been a plumbing emergency.
It was not entirely a lie.
The blood had certainly gone somewhere.
By ten thirty, she was pouring coffee for two construction workers when a black sedan pulled into the parking lot.
Her hand stopped above the cup.
The car was expensive, polished, and completely out of place among the aging pickups and delivery vans usually parked outside Hank's Diner.
A man in a charcoal coat stepped out.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with the careful stillness of someone who never needed to rush.
He entered the diner.
The bell above the door rang normally this time.
Mave set the coffee pot down.
“No.”
The man stopped.
“Ms. Collins?”
“No matter what you're selling, I don't want it.”
“I'm not selling anything.”
“Then whatever you want, the answer is still no.”
He glanced toward the two construction workers.
They were pretending not to listen.
“My name is Dominic Varga's attorney. Adrian Shaw.”
Mave looked at him.
“Congratulations.”
A muscle moved in his cheek.
“I've been asked to deliver something to you.”
“Tell your employer I already spoke to Dr. Bell.”
“I'm aware.”
“Then he knows I'm not interested in protection.”
“This isn't protection.”
Adrian reached inside his coat.
Mave immediately stepped back.
He noticed and withdrew his hand slowly, revealing a cream-colored envelope rather than a weapon.
“I apologize. I should have explained.”
He placed the envelope on the counter.
“Mr. Varga wishes to compensate you for the damage to your diner.”
Mave did not touch it.
“How much?”
“Enough to repair the floor, replace the furniture, and cover the income you lost while cleaning up.”
“How much?”
Adrian hesitated.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
The coffee pot slipped slightly in Mave's hand.
She caught it before it fell.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
It was more than she earned in several months. It would cover the rent, pay off the overdue utility bills, replace the tires on her car, and leave enough to put something aside for Toby's future.
For one dizzying moment, she imagined what it would feel like to open the envelope.
To stop calculating every grocery purchase.
To buy Toby the winter coat he had admired in a shop window.
To replace the mattress that had begun to sag in the middle.
Then she remembered the gun pointed at her face.
She remembered Dominic's fingers closing around her wrist.
She remembered the way his bodyguards had looked at her as though her life belonged to them for as long as their employer remained in danger.
“No.”
Adrian blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
“Ms. Collins, this isn't a favor. It's compensation.”
“For what?”
“The damage.”
“Then send me an itemized payment for the actual damage. The floor, the table, the chair, and whatever else your employer's men broke.”
Adrian looked at the envelope.
“I was told to offer you twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“And I'm telling you that I didn't ask for twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“You should understand that refusing money from Mr. Varga could be interpreted as an insult.”
Mave stared at him.
The construction workers had stopped pretending not to listen.
“Then perhaps Mr. Varga should learn the difference between an insult and a woman who doesn't want to owe a dangerous stranger anything.”
Adrian's expression hardened.
“You don't owe him anything.”
“Good. Then take the envelope.”
He did not move.
Mave leaned forward.
“Mr. Shaw, I work here because I need the money. I raise my son alone because his father decided responsibility was less appealing than disappearing. I have spent the last five years making sure one unexpected bill doesn't destroy everything I've built.”
She paused, aware that she was saying more than she intended.
“I don't need another man deciding that his money gives him the right to make choices for me.”
Adrian regarded her in silence.
Then, unexpectedly, he picked up the envelope.
“I'll relay your position.”
“Please do.”
He turned toward the door.
“Ms. Collins?”
She looked up.
“Mr. Varga doesn't usually take no for an answer.”
“Then this will be an educational experience for him.”
Adrian almost smiled.
Almost.
He left without another word.
Mave watched the sedan pull away.
She had barely resumed pouring coffee when the construction worker at the counter cleared his throat.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“Please don't.”
“I wasn't going to ask for any.”
“Good.”
He took a sip of coffee.
“Could've used that kind of money when my wife was sick.”
Mave's fingers tightened around the pot.
She did not know what to say.
The man looked down at his cup.
“Sometimes people offer help because they want something. Sometimes they just don't know how else to help.”
He placed a ten-dollar bill beneath his saucer.
“Keep the change.”
Then he left.
Mave stood behind the counter, staring at the empty seat.
She wondered how many people had spent their lives refusing help because accepting it had once come with a price.
She wondered how many others had accepted it and discovered the price only afterward.
And she wondered why, despite everything, she kept thinking about Dominic Varga's face when she had told him to leave.
At noon, Dominic woke in a private recovery suite overlooking the Chicago River.
The pain arrived before his memories.
A deep, relentless ache spread across his upper chest, pulling sharply whenever he tried to breathe too deeply. His shoulder felt heavy, and his mouth tasted like metal.
He opened his eyes.
White ceiling.
White walls.
An intravenous line attached to his arm.
The faint, steady rhythm of a heart monitor.
He had been in worse places.
He had never enjoyed any of them.
“Finally.”
Dominic turned his head.
Dr. Bell stood beside the bed, studying a tablet.
“How long?”
“Approximately six hours since surgery.”
“Who knows I'm here?”
“Your people. My surgical team. Two nurses. And, unfortunately, your attorney.”
Dominic frowned.
“Why unfortunately?”
“Because Adrian has been pacing outside my office for an hour, explaining that a diner waitress rejected twenty-five thousand dollars.”
For the first time since waking, Dominic appeared genuinely interested.
“She rejected it?”
“Apparently.”
“Why?”
“Because she doesn't want to owe you anything.”
Dominic looked toward the window.
The river moved beneath the gray morning sky, carrying small fragments of reflected light between the buildings.
He remembered the diner.
The blood.
The pressure of Mave's hand.
The anger in her eyes when he had ordered Rafe to investigate her.
He remembered her telling him that she had saved his life because she couldn't stand watching someone die.
He had spent most of his adult life surrounded by people who wanted something.
Even the ones who claimed otherwise usually wanted a favor, a contract, a promise, or the opportunity to stand closer to power.
Mave Collins had looked at him and seen a problem she did not want.
He found the experience unsettling.
“Did Adrian tell her about the danger?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She told him to leave her alone.”
Dominic's jaw tightened.
“Did he mention the shooting?”
“He explained that the people responsible might consider her a witness.”
“Good.”
“Dominic.”
The doctor set down the tablet.
“You cannot solve every problem by assigning armed men to follow it.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“You were absolutely planning to.”
Dominic ignored him.
“Find out who owns the diner.”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure no one uses her workplace to reach her.”
Dr. Bell folded his arms.
“Then ask whether she wants security.”
“She'll refuse.”
“Probably.”
“Then we need another approach.”
“Perhaps you could start by respecting her answer.”
Dominic looked at him.
Dr. Bell had known him for nearly fifteen years. He was one of the few people in the city who could speak to him without checking the room first.
That was why Dominic tolerated him.
“What would you suggest?”
“Leave her alone unless there's a credible threat.”
“And if there is?”
“Tell her the truth. Give her the information she needs to make her own decision.”
Dominic looked back at the river.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he asked, “Did she really work in an emergency department?”
“She told us she was a trauma nurse.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
Dr. Bell hesitated.
“Her records indicate that she worked as an emergency-room technician. She was dismissed two years ago.”
“Why?”
“I haven't investigated her personal circumstances.”
“Then don't.”
The doctor raised an eyebrow.
Dominic continued before he could respond.
“I want a professional assessment of the diner, the surrounding streets, and any credible evidence that the people who attacked me are searching for witnesses. Nothing else. No background report on her family. No contact with her employer. No one approaches her without my authorization.”
Dr. Bell studied him.
“That almost sounds reasonable.”
“Don't get used to it.”
The doctor shook his head and left.
Dominic reached for the phone on the bedside table.
His injured arm protested immediately.
He ignored it and called Rafe.
“Tell me what you've found.”
Rafe answered on the first ring.
“We identified the vehicle used by the shooters. It was stolen two days ago. The plates were switched, and the car was abandoned near an industrial site.”
“Who arranged the meeting at the docks?”
“We're still investigating.”
“Then investigate faster.”
“There is something else.”
Dominic waited.
“Someone has been asking questions about the woman from the diner.”
The room seemed to grow colder.
“Who?”
“A man visited Hank's Diner about forty minutes ago. He didn't enter. He watched the building from across the street, took several photographs, and left in a gray delivery van.”
Dominic's fingers tightened around the phone.
“Did you identify him?”
“Not yet.”
“Was Mave inside?”
“Yes.”
“Did he approach her?”
“No. He watched the entrance.”
Dominic closed his eyes briefly.
Someone knew.
Someone had connected the diner to the shooting, and someone was already trying to determine what Mave Collins had witnessed.
The woman had refused his money.
She had refused his protection.
She had told him to leave her life alone.
And now the people who had tried to kill him might be preparing to enter it.
“Rafe.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Get two people to observe the diner from a distance. No uniforms. No weapons displayed. They are not to approach her, speak to her, or interfere with her work unless there is an immediate threat.”
“Understood.”
“And find the man in the van.”
“We will.”
Dominic ended the call.
For several seconds, he sat motionless in the hospital bed.
Then he reached for a glass of water.
His hand trembled slightly.
He hated that.
He hated weakness, uncertainty, and the helplessness that came with being unable to leave his own bed.
But more than anything, he hated the realization that he had introduced danger into the life of a woman who had done nothing except refuse to let him die.
He had spent years believing that power meant being able to control what happened next.
Now he understood that the most dangerous thing about Mave Collins was not her refusal to obey him.
May you like
It was that she had given him a reason to care what happened to someone he could not control.
And Dominic Varga had never learned how to care about anything without trying to protect it.
