Chapter 2 - The Name Behind the Door
Dante’s men moved before the door opened.
One stepped in front of the bed.
Another pulled Nola behind the medication cabinet.
Nola immediately shoved his arm away.
“I am not hiding behind furniture in my own hospital.”
“Doctor—”
The door opened.
Dr. Evelyn Hart, St. Gabriel’s chief medical officer, stepped inside.
She stopped.
Her eyes moved from the two men blocking the room to Dante in bed.
Then to Nola.
“Nola.”
Nola exhaled.
“Dr. Hart.”
“Would you mind explaining why hospital security tells me an unregistered gunshot victim was brought through a restricted medication corridor?”
Nola glanced at Dante.
He lifted one eyebrow.
Not his problem.
Apparently.
“He was critically unstable.”
“That explains treatment. It does not explain the men.”
One of Dante’s guards said, “We’re private security.”
Hart looked at him.
“You are standing in my ICU with a shoulder holster.”
He looked faintly embarrassed.
Nola almost laughed.
Almost.
Hart turned back to Nola.
“My office. Ten minutes.”
“I need to monitor—”
“You need to be in my office.”
Dante spoke.
“She stays.”
The room fell silent.
Hart slowly looked at him.
“I’m sorry?”
Dante’s voice remained quiet.
“Dr. Crest stays.”
Nola closed her eyes briefly.
Of all possible ways this conversation could worsen, Dante had found one.
She stepped toward his bed.
“You don’t decide where I go.”
His gaze met hers.
“You were threatened.”
“I was not threatened.”
“Your apartment camera was disabled.”
Hart’s expression sharpened.
“What?”
Nola glared at Dante.
“That information was not yours to announce.”
“You’re right.”
The immediate admission surprised her.
He continued.
“But it changes the situation.”
Hart folded her arms.
“What situation?”
Nola wanted to say she had no idea.
Instead, she told the truth.
Someone had interfered with hospital cameras.
Someone apparently knew where she lived.
One of Dante’s men had disappeared.
And the patient had survived what appeared to be an organized attack.
Hart listened without interrupting.
When Nola finished, the chief medical officer looked twenty years older.
“Security is locking the floor.”
Dante shook his head.
“No hospital security.”
Hart stared at him.
“This is my hospital.”
“And someone inside it turned off cameras before I arrived.”
“Which means?”
“Someone knew I was coming.”
Nola leaned against the counter.
“But you didn’t know you were coming. You were brought here after you were injured.”
Dante looked at her.
“Exactly.”
That took a moment to settle.
If the cameras had been disabled before Dante arrived, then whoever controlled them had known where his men would bring him.
Which meant his destination had been anticipated.
Or selected.
Nola’s skin prickled.
“Why here?”
Dante did not answer.
Hart did.
“Because St. Gabriel has the best trauma team downtown.”
“No,” Nola said.
Everyone looked at her.
“If this was about saving him, nobody would disable the camera outside my apartment.”
Dante’s gaze sharpened.
Nola folded her arms.
“This is connected to me.”
“No,” Dante said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
He looked away.
It was the first time she had seen Dante Vale avoid a question.
That frightened her more than anything else.
By noon, the city knew Dante had been hospitalized.
No official statement had been released, but reporters gathered outside the main entrance.
Police arrived.
Two detectives requested interviews.
Dante declined.
Nola did not.
Detective Lena Ortiz listened while Nola described the arrival.
“Did you know Mr. Vale before last night?”
“No.”
“Ever treat him before?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“No.”
“Business connection?”
“I’m an ER physician.”
Ortiz smiled faintly.
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No connection.”
“Enemies?”
Nola stared at her.
“I work in emergency medicine. Half my patients hate me until the pain medication arrives.”
Ortiz almost smiled.
Then she placed a photograph on the table.
A man.
Scar on chin.
Rafe.
Nola recognized him immediately.
“He was one of the men who brought Dante in.”
“Rafael Kessler.”
“Where is he?”
“Missing.”
Ortiz watched her.
“His car was found three blocks from your apartment.”
Nola’s pulse changed.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for her.
“When?”
“Six this morning.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Maybe you can help it make sense.”
“I’ve never seen him before last night.”
Ortiz slid another photograph across the table.
This one showed the interior of Rafe’s car.
On the passenger seat sat a file folder.
NOLA CREST was printed across the front.
Nola stared.
“Where did that come from?”
“That’s what I hoped you could tell me.”
“No.”
Ortiz studied her.
“Doctor, I believe you.”
That should have helped.
It did not.
“Then why are we still talking?”
“Because somebody has been collecting information about you for months.”
Nola felt cold.
“What information?”
“Work schedules. Parking records. Old addresses. Medical-school history.”
“My family?”
“Not much.”
Nola thought of her mother in Ohio.
Her younger brother in Denver.
Ordinary people.
People who should never be anywhere near Dante Vale’s world.
“What does any of this have to do with him?”
Ortiz leaned back.
“That depends on who wants Mr. Vale dead.”
“Who does?”
Ortiz gave her a tired look.
“How much time do you have?”
The detective left Nola with instructions not to go home alone.
Dante was transferred to a private recovery suite on the hospital’s upper floor.
By evening, he was sitting up.
Against medical advice.
Nola entered and found him buttoning a black shirt beneath his ivory vest.
“No.”
He looked up.
“No?”
“You are not getting dressed.”
“I have somewhere to be.”
“You had abdominal surgery less than twelve hours ago.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That phrase is usually what patients say right before proving themselves wrong.”
He continued buttoning.
Nola crossed the room and took his jacket off the chair.
“You’re not getting this.”
Dante stared at her.
Then at the jacket.
“You’re stealing my clothes?”
“I am holding them medically hostage.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
Amusement.
Then pain.
He hid it quickly.
Nola noticed.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
He sat.
She checked the incision.
No new bleeding.
Good.
“What is so important?”
Dante said nothing.
“Does it involve the person who tried to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“Then no.”
His eyes lifted.
“You don’t command me outside the hospital.”
“Inside it, I absolutely do.”
“Noted.”
He leaned back.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Dante said, “There is a man named Silas Rook.”
Nola waited.
“He controls the eastern docks.”
“Controls legally?”
“No.”
“Wonderful.”
“He and I have had an agreement for six years.”
“What kind?”
“We stayed out of each other’s territory.”
Nola frowned.
“And now?”
“Three weeks ago, he broke it.”
“What did he do?”
Dante’s expression hardened.
“He started buying people around me.”
“Rafe?”
“Maybe.”
“And you think Silas shot you?”
“I think Silas wants me to think he did.”
That answer was more disturbing.
“Why?”
“Because obvious enemies are useful.”
Nola sat opposite him.
“Then who do you think did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does that happen often?”
“No.”
“Good. I was worried this was normal.”
Again that nearly invisible smile.
Then he looked at her for a long moment.
“You’re not afraid of me.”
Nola considered lying.
“I’m afraid of what follows you.”
That stopped him.
“You?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Smart.”
“Don’t sound pleased.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Fear makes people stupid. You are not.”
Nola looked away.
City lights filled the windows.
Dante’s suite sat high above downtown, and for a moment the world below looked peaceful.
Tiny cars.
Distant towers.
No sign of men bleeding in locked rooms.
“No one sees me as smart first,” she said quietly.
The admission surprised even her.
Dante’s gaze did not change.
“What do they see?”
She gave him a look.
“You know.”
He did.
She had spent years watching eyes travel over her body before reaching her face.
Patients who asked for another doctor.
Administrators who suggested she might look “more professional” in certain clothes.
Men who called her warm when they meant harmless.
Women who praised her confidence as though existing comfortably in her own body were a rebellion.
Dante looked at her.
“I saw the doctor who ordered three armed men around while I was dying.”
“You were barely conscious.”
“I remember enough.”
She smiled despite herself.
“Unfortunately.”
The door opened.
A nurse stepped in.
“Dr. Crest?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a package for you.”
Nola frowned.
“Here?”
“No return name.”
Dante became still.
“Don’t touch it.”
The nurse froze.
Nola walked toward the counter.
A small white box sat there.
Hospital courier label.
Her name.
Nothing else.
Dante reached for his phone.
Nola examined the box without opening it.
“No wires. No stains.”
“That does not make it safe.”
“I know.”
Security was called.
The package was scanned.
Nothing dangerous.
Inside was a photograph.
Nola at a grocery store.
Taken from across the parking lot.
On the back, written in black ink:
YOU SAVED THE WRONG MAN.
Below it was a time.
8:30 P.M.
And an address.
Dante recognized it.
Nola saw that instantly.
“What is that place?”
He took the photograph.
His face changed.
Not fear.
Something close to fury.
“Where?”
“Dante.”
“Where did this come from?”
“The package.”
He stood despite the pain.
Nola blocked him.
“What is the address?”
Dante looked at her.
“The Halcyon.”
“What’s that?”
“A private club.”
“Silas Rook?”
“Yes.”
Nola stared at the photograph.
“And eight-thirty?”
Dante checked the time.
7:58.
“No.”
“What?”
“You’re not going.”
Nola almost laughed.
“You’re the patient.”
“And you are the target.”
“That photo says I saved the wrong man. It could be bait for you.”
“It is.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Silas knows exactly what I’ll do.”
Nola’s voice dropped.
“And what will you do?”
Dante took his jacket from her hands.
This time she let him.
“I’ll go.”
“So whoever sent this wins?”
“No.”
He put on the jacket.
“Because they expect me to come alone.”
The suite door opened.
Two of his men entered.
Behind them stood Dr. Hart.
And beside her was Detective Ortiz.
Ortiz held another photograph.
Her face was grim.
“We found Rafe.”
Dante stopped.
“Alive?”
Ortiz did not answer immediately.
Instead, she placed the photograph on the table.
Rafe was seated in a chair.
Alive.
A newspaper in his hands.
Today’s date visible.
On the wall behind him someone had written one sentence.
BRING THE DOCTOR.
Nola stared at it.
Then she noticed something in the lower corner of the picture.
A reflection.
A hospital ID badge.
Her hospital ID badge.
The one she had lost six months ago.
And beneath it was a second name.
A name Nola knew very well.
She looked up.
May you like
“That person works here.”
The suite lights suddenly went out.
