Chapter 3
Over the following 3 weeks, something inside the Gallo estate changed.
The men could not identify exactly what it was.
The bourbon remained the same.
The cigars remained the same.
Weekly meetings concerning extortion, union skimming, and territory disputes continued without interruption.
But Dominic was different.
Ordinarily, he was a coiled spring.
He had little patience for incompetence and demanded silence when he worked.
Lately, a strange tolerance had settled over him.
Then came the new rule concerning the West Wing.
“No 1 walks on the West Wing carpets wearing street shoes,” Dominic announced during a meeting with his capos. “And if you leave a mess in the kitchen after midnight, you clean it yourself or you lose a finger.”
Carlo, a scarred enforcer who had known Dominic for 10 years, stared at him.
“You want us washing dishes, boss?”
“I want you to stop behaving like animals.”
Dominic’s answer was flat.
“The staff is overworked.”
The staff was not overworked.
The estate employed 5 maids, 2 cooks, and a groundskeeper.
But Linda routinely ended up cleaning the kitchen after the men’s late-night poker games.
Dominic was no longer willing to let her scrub dried sauce from plates at 2:00 a.m. when she needed to be at the hospital by morning.
Linda had changed too.
The hollow exhaustion was gone.
She still wore the shapeless gray uniform.
She still kept her eyes lowered around Dominic’s men.
But color had returned to her face.
She moved with purpose.
Sometimes, when she believed the house was empty, she hummed.
A quiet, slightly off-key lullaby.
Dominic found it impossible to ignore.
He began inventing reasons to leave his study.
He would walk into the kitchen for water he did not want simply because Linda was cleaning the counters.
He stood on balconies smoking cigarettes and found himself watching as she crossed the courtyard toward the laundry building.
He knew how absurd it was.
He did not care.
1 Tuesday evening, the balance shifted.
Dominic was reviewing a disputed shipping manifest in his study.
The door stood open.
Farther down the hallway, Carlo and a younger soldier named Dante were arguing about a missed collection at the docks.
Linda passed the study carrying fresh towels.
“Hey, you.”
Dante’s voice stopped her.
Dominic looked up from the page.
“Get me a coffee. Black. And make it quick.”
Dante spoke with the arrogance of a young man who carried a weapon and believed that made him important.
Dominic dropped his pen.
His blood went cold.
He rose and moved toward the door, 1 hand instinctively brushing the pistol at his waist.
He was already imagining breaking Dante’s jaw.
Possibly throwing him through a 2nd-story window.
Linda stopped before Dominic reached the hallway.
She did not flinch.
She turned slowly.
The woman who had collapsed beside her son’s hospital bed was gone.
What remained was someone who had already faced something far worse than a young criminal with a gun.
“I am domestic staff,” Linda said.
Her voice remained quiet, but there was a sharpness beneath it.
“I do laundry. I clean floors. I do not run errands for associates who cannot locate the kitchen. The coffee machine is downstairs, 2nd door on the left. Press the green button.”
Dante’s face darkened.
He stepped toward her.
“Listen to me, you little—”
“Dante.”
Dominic said the name once.
Every person in the hallway stopped.
Linda blinked.
Dante turned immediately.
The color drained from his face.
Dominic stepped from his study.
He did not raise his voice.
“Is there a problem with the coffee machine, Dante?”
“No, boss.”
Dante took a step backward.
“Just—just asked a question.”
“She answered it. 2nd door on the left. Green button.”
Dominic stared at him.
“If you ever speak to the staff that way again, you won’t need coffee. You’ll need a liquid diet. Am I clear?”
“Crystal, Mr. Gallo. Sorry. Sorry, miss.”
Dante nearly ran toward the stairs.
Carlo followed, releasing a low, uneasy whistle.
Silence returned.
Linda remained in the hallway with the towels in her arms.
She looked at Dominic.
Not with fear.
With curiosity.
“Thank you, Mr. Gallo.”
“Don’t thank me.”
Dominic pushed his hands into his pockets, irritated that his indifference had slipped.
“He was out of line.”
Linda adjusted the towels.
“You’ve been very lenient lately. The hours. The kitchen rules.”
“I run an efficient house. Exhausted staff make mistakes.”
“Right.”
The corner of her mouth moved slightly.
Then she said, “My son is doing much better. The new treatment is working. So I won’t be as exhausted.”
Dominic felt the words like a physical impact.
His face remained blank.
“Glad to hear it. Get back to work.”
He returned to his study and closed the mahogany door.
Then he leaned against it.
His heart was pounding.
Linda was beginning to look at him differently.
And Dominic understood that if he was not careful, he might burn down everything he had built to keep that look in her eyes.
2 months passed before his restraint failed completely.
The reports from St. Jude’s remained positive.
Rossi, serving as intermediary for the anonymous trust, received updates every week.
Keo’s white blood cell count was stabilizing.
The tumors were shrinking.
The boy was responding.
Dominic should have considered the matter finished.
The money had achieved its intended result.
He should have returned his attention to the Russian syndicate pressing against his trucking routes.
Instead, on a freezing January afternoon, Dominic parked 3 blocks from St. Jude’s County General.
He told himself he was there to verify that the hospital was not misusing the money.
He told himself he needed to check security.
Neither explanation was true.
He wanted to see the boy alive.
He wanted to see Linda smiling.
Dominic entered through a side entrance.
He wore a dark wool overcoat, charcoal suit, and black scarf.
He looked exactly like what he was: wealthy, dangerous, and completely out of place inside a public hospital.
He climbed the stairs to floor 4.
The pediatric ward was quieter than before.
The yellow walls remained.
Dominic walked toward room 412.
His plan was simple.
Look through the doorway.
Confirm that Keo was alive.
Confirm that Linda was there.
Then leave.
But the door stood completely open.
Dominic stopped.
Linda was not inside.
Her faded navy trench coat hung over the back of a chair.
Keo sat upright in bed struggling with a plastic container of unnaturally green Jell-O.
He looked different.
Still thin.
Still small.
But the deathly pallor was gone.
Color had returned to his face.
A faint layer of dark hair was beginning to grow across his scalp.
Most of the machines had been removed.
Only a standard IV remained.
Dominic should have walked away.
Instead, he stepped into the room.
Keo stopped fighting with the Jell-O and looked up.
His large brown eyes fixed on the man in the doorway.
“Are you a doctor?”
Dominic stopped.
“No.”
“Are you the guy who fixes the TV?”
Keo pointed his spoon toward the television mounted in the corner.
“Because the cartoon channel is fuzzy.”
“I don’t fix televisions.”
“Oh.”
Keo ate a spoonful of Jell-O and considered him.
“Then who are you?”
Dominic stood at the foot of the bed.
He had negotiated with cartels and faced federal prosecutors without hesitation.
Now, confronted by a 7-year-old in a hospital gown, his mind emptied.
“I’m a friend of your mother.”
The word felt unnatural.
Dominic did not have friends.
He had assets.
Liabilities.
People who owed him.
Keo’s eyes widened.
“You know my mom?”
“Yes.”
“Do you work with her? At the big house with the scary guys?”
A muscle moved in Dominic’s jaw.
“Something like that. I’m her boss.”
Keo dropped his spoon.
Then he studied Dominic more carefully.
The expensive suit.
The gold watch.
The severe expression.
“You’re Mr. Gallo.”
Dominic felt cold.
“She talks about me?”
“Sometimes.”
Keo leaned toward him and lowered his voice.
“She says you’re really strict and that you yell at people who wear shoes on the rug.”
A short breath escaped Dominic.
“That is accurate.”
“She also says you’re the reason we have the good insurance now. Because you gave her a raise.”
Dominic stared at him.
May you like
Good insurance.
A raise.
