Chapter 2 - The Bullet My Mother Had Taken
I woke to the sound of someone arguing outside my hospital room.
The voices were low, but one of them belonged to Dante Romano, and anger made him incapable of whispering.
“She is a nurse, not a prisoner.”
“She is alive because she is being guarded,” Vincent replied.
“You put armed men outside an intensive care unit.”
“I put armed men between her and the people who tried to kill us.”
“They attacked you.”
“They shot her.”
Silence followed.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling above me was white and painfully bright. A monitor pulsed beside the bed, matching the slow rhythm of my heart. My shoulder felt as if someone had driven a metal rod through it and left it there.
Memory returned in broken flashes.
The burning vehicle.
Shattered glass.
Vincent Romano kneeling over me.
His hand pressed against my blood.
And the impossible words he had whispered.
Your mother took a bullet meant for me.
I tried to sit up.
Pain exploded through my left side.
A nurse hurried through the door.
“Don’t move.”
Her name was Carla. I recognized her from the surgical floor, though we had rarely worked the same shift.
“How long?” I asked.
“About nine hours.”
“My shoulder?”
“The bullet passed through the upper muscle and missed the artery. You were lucky.”
Lucky.
The word tasted strange.
Outside the room, Dante said something I could not hear. Vincent answered in a colder tone, and the argument ended.
Carla checked my IV line.
“You have visitors.”
“I heard.”
Her eyes moved toward the door.
“There are six of them.”
“Six visitors?”
“Six armed men.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course there are.”
She hesitated.
“Madeline, the police want to speak with you. So does hospital administration. So does the FBI.”
“The FBI?”
“The shooting took place on hospital property, and they recovered military-grade ammunition across the street.”
Before I could ask another question, Vincent entered.
He had removed his overcoat. His charcoal suit remained perfectly pressed despite the blood dried along one cuff. He closed the door behind him and stood near the foot of my bed.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
“You lied to me,” I finally said.
His expression did not change.
“I met you less than twelve hours ago.”
“You told me my mother took a bullet for you.”
“She did.”
“And then you let me lose consciousness without explaining anything.”
“You were bleeding.”
“I’m not bleeding now.”
Vincent glanced at the monitor.
“You are still receiving pain medication.”
“I can understand English while medicated.”
He pulled a chair closer but did not sit.
“Your mother worked at a private clinic in East Boston before she became a hospital nurse.”
“I know that.”
“What you do not know is that the clinic treated people who could not safely enter ordinary hospitals.”
“Criminals?”
“Some.”
His answer came without shame.
“Immigrants without documents. Women escaping abusive husbands. Men injured in places where questions created danger.”
“And mafia bosses.”
“I was not a boss then.”
“What were you?”
“A twenty-three-year-old fool who believed fear was the same as respect.”
The admission surprised me.
Vincent looked toward the window.
“Thirty years ago, my father was at war with the Bellandi family. One night, I was shot near the docks. My men brought me to the clinic because the police were watching every emergency room in Boston.”
“My mother treated you.”
“She saved me.”
“And my father?”
Vincent’s gaze returned to me.
“Thomas Brooks was not your mother’s quiet accountant husband when she met him.”
A cold feeling settled in my stomach.
“What was he?”
“An investigator.”
“For the police?”
“No.”
Vincent sat at last.
“For my father.”
I stared at him.
“My father worked for the mafia?”
“He collected information. Bank records, shipping manifests, union payments. He knew where money moved and which officials had been purchased.”
“That is impossible.”
“Is it?”
I wanted to say yes.
My father wore old sweaters, made terrible coffee, and spent Sunday mornings repairing things that did not need repairing. He had taught me to ride a bicycle and cried at my nursing graduation.
Nothing about him belonged in Vincent Romano’s world.
Yet the photograph from the lobby remained clear in my memory.
My father holding a gun.
“My mother told me he worked in insurance.”
“He did after she forced him to leave us.”
“Why would she marry someone involved with your family?”
“Because he was not a monster.”
Vincent’s voice softened.
“Not then.”
The last two words frightened me.
“What happened the night she was shot?”
Vincent was silent long enough that I wondered whether he would answer.
Then he leaned back.
“My father had learned that someone inside the Romano organization was secretly helping the Bellandis. Thomas found evidence identifying the traitor. Before he could deliver it, the traitor sent gunmen to the clinic.”
“My mother was there.”
“She was finishing her shift.”
Vincent looked at his bloodstained cuff.
“I arrived because Thomas asked to meet me. The attackers entered through the rear door. Your mother saw the weapon before I did.”
My throat tightened.
“How old was she?”
“Thirty-four.”
I had been twelve.
My sister Rachel had been nine.
“She pushed me behind an examination table,” Vincent continued. “The first bullet struck her in the chest.”
I could not breathe.
“The official report said she died during a robbery.”
“There was no robbery.”
“My father identified her body.”
“Yes.”
“He told us a stranger shot her for the money in the cash drawer.”
“He told you what he believed would keep you safe.”
Anger rose through the pain.
“He lied to his daughters for twenty-two years.”
“He buried his wife.”
“That does not give him the right to rewrite her death.”
“No. But fear makes cowards of men who once believed themselves brave.”
I watched Vincent carefully.
“You said the men who killed her had returned.”
“The Bellandis were blamed for the attack. My father retaliated. Their organization collapsed within a year.”
“But they were not responsible.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“No.”
“Then who was?”
“I do not know.”
I almost laughed.
“You control half this city, but you never discovered who murdered the woman who saved your life?”
“I discovered several names. Every trail ended with a dead witness or a missing file.”
“And the traitor?”
“Never identified.”
I thought about the attack outside the hospital.
“Why now?”
“Because someone feared what might happen after I defended you publicly.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does if the attack was meant to kill both of us.”
The door opened.
Dante entered without knocking.
A dark bruise marked the side of his face where Vincent had struck him. He had changed into a black shirt and jacket, and the fresh bandage above his eyebrow made him look younger than he had in the emergency department.
More vulnerable.
I remembered him hiding behind a concrete pillar during the shooting.
The spoiled heir who had threatened to erase my life had protected only himself when the bullets arrived.
Dante looked at his father.
“You need to leave.”
Vincent did not move.
“She asked for answers.”
“She needs rest.”
“I can speak for myself,” I said.
Dante’s gaze shifted to me.
For once, arrogance did not dominate his expression.
“How do you feel?”
“As though I was shot.”
His mouth tightened.
“I did not know the attack was coming.”
“I assumed you didn’t arrange it while standing beside the target.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He stepped closer.
“I threatened you. I understand that.”
“You promised to destroy my career and my family.”
“I was angry.”
“That makes it better?”
“No.”
The word came quickly.
Almost sincerely.
Dante looked at the floor.
“I was humiliated. I wanted you afraid.”
“You succeeded.”
His eyes lifted.
That seemed to hurt him more than I expected.
“I didn’t want this.”
“People like you always say that after someone else pays for your anger.”
Vincent stood.
“That is enough.”
“No,” Dante said. “It isn’t.”
He moved to the side of my bed.
“My father believes the attack is connected to your mother. I think someone used you to send him a message.”
“What message?”
“That the past is not buried.”
Vincent’s phone vibrated.
He read the screen.
Something changed in his face.
“What is it?” Dante asked.
Vincent looked at me.
“Your father is missing.”
The room became very still.
“What?”
“Two of my men went to his house after the attack. The front door was open. There was blood in the kitchen.”
I tore the blanket away.
Pain shot through my shoulder.
Carla rushed in from the hallway, but I pushed myself upright.
“I need my clothes.”
“You are not leaving,” she said.
“My father has been taken.”
“You just came out of surgery.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
The room tilted violently.
Dante caught me before I fell.
His hand closed around my uninjured arm.
“Let go.”
“You can barely stand.”
“My father is missing.”
“And collapsing in the hallway will not help him.”
I tried to pull free.
He did not release me.
Vincent stepped toward the door.
“I will find Thomas.”
“You have had thirty years to find my mother’s killer.”
The words struck him.
“Forgive me if I don’t trust your speed.”
Dante lowered his voice.
“Madeline, listen to me.”
“I listened to you in the emergency room. You told me you would erase my life. Now my father is gone.”
“You think I did this?”
“I think your world followed you into my hospital.”
His face hardened, but he did not answer.
The door opened again.
A federal agent entered, accompanied by a uniformed police officer.
The agent was a woman in her early forties with close-cropped black hair and a tired expression.
“Madeline Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“Special Agent Lena Shaw. We need to speak privately.”
Her eyes moved to Vincent and Dante.
“Without the Romanos.”
Vincent smiled faintly.
“You arrived quickly.”
Agent Shaw did not return the smile.
“We were already investigating the ammunition used in the attack.”
“For what case?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“If someone took Thomas Brooks, it is very much my concern.”
Shaw stepped closer.
“Your concern has buried enough people.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Dante released my arm.
Vincent studied the agent.
“You know who did this.”
“I know your family has been under investigation for eighteen months.”
“That was not my question.”
Agent Shaw turned to me.
“Your father contacted the FBI three weeks ago.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“He said someone had begun following him.”
“Who?”
“He would not name them over the telephone. He claimed he had evidence connected to a thirty-year-old homicide and a criminal organization operating inside Boston Harbor.”
“My mother.”
Shaw did not confirm it.
She did not need to.
“What evidence?”
“He was supposed to meet us yesterday.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“And he failed to arrive.”
“Yes.”
“Why was he not placed under protection?”
“He refused.”
I closed my eyes.
That sounded like my father.
Stubborn even when terrified.
Agent Shaw removed a small plastic evidence bag from her coat.
Inside was a brass key.
“This was delivered to our Boston office two hours ago.”
I looked at the label attached to it.
My name was written across the paper in my father’s handwriting.
Beneath it were four words.
MADeline knows where to look.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Neither do we.”
Dante reached for the bag.
Shaw pulled it away.
“Do not touch federal evidence.”
He glared at her.
Vincent ignored them both.
“Think,” he said to me. “What place would Thomas expect you to remember?”
I looked at the key.
It was old, with a blue strip of paint across the top.
A memory surfaced.
My mother’s clinic had been demolished years ago, but before her death, she kept a blue metal locker in the basement. When Rachel and I visited after school, she hid candy inside it.
The number painted on the door had been 317.
I looked at Agent Shaw.
“The old clinic.”
Vincent stood perfectly still.
“That building is gone.”
“The main building is. The basement was sealed when they constructed the apartments.”
Shaw placed the key back inside her coat.
“Where?”
I told her.
Vincent began moving toward the door.
Agent Shaw blocked him.
“You are not coming.”
“If Thomas left something connected to my family, I will see it.”
“You will remain outside the federal perimeter.”
Vincent’s expression became dangerous.
Before the argument could continue, Dante spoke.
“I’ll take her.”
Everyone looked at him.
Shaw almost laughed.
“You are not taking a gunshot victim to a possible crime scene.”
“I know the streets around the old clinic. My father’s vehicles will attract attention. Mine won’t.”
“Your face is on half the security footage in Boston.”
“I can enter through the service tunnels.”
Vincent watched his son.
“You know those tunnels?”
Dante hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I used them during club deliveries.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed, but this was not the time to question him.
I stood again.
The dizziness returned, but I held the bedrail.
“I’m going.”
Agent Shaw shook her head.
“No.”
“My father left that key for me.”
“You are injured and potentially targeted.”
“Then your safest option is keeping me close.”
She looked toward the armed men in the hallway.
“Nothing about this is safe.”
I met her eyes.
“If my father is alive, every minute matters.”
Shaw studied me.
At last, she exhaled.
“Medical transport. Federal escort. Romano stays behind.”
“No,” Dante said.
“Yes.”
“He knows the tunnels,” I reminded her.
Vincent looked at his son for a long moment.
Then he said, “Take him.”
Dante seemed surprised.
“If there is danger,” Vincent continued, “you bring her back.”
“What about the evidence?”
“You bring her back.”
The command carried more weight than concern for any key or secret.
I noticed it.
So did Dante.
An hour later, against medical advice and wearing my scrub pants beneath a borrowed coat, I left St. Catherine’s through a private ambulance entrance.
Agent Shaw rode in front.
Dante sat across from me in the rear compartment.
Two federal vehicles followed us.
Neither of us spoke until the hospital disappeared behind us.
Then Dante said, “My father has never looked at anyone the way he looked at you.”
I adjusted the sling around my shoulder.
“He feels guilty.”
“It’s more than guilt.”
“Do not turn this into something sentimental.”
“I’m not.”
His eyes moved toward the ambulance doors.
“When my mother died, he stopped caring whether people loved him. He decided fear was more reliable.”
“I’m sorry.”
Dante looked surprised by the words.
“I was ten.”
“How did she die?”
“Car accident.”
The pause before his answer was almost invisible.
Almost.
“You don’t believe that,” I said.
His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The ambulance slowed near East Boston.
Through the small window, I saw new apartment towers rising where old brick buildings had once stood.
Dante leaned forward.
“There is something else you should know.”
“What?”
“The tunnel entrance is beneath a warehouse my father does not own.”
“Who owns it?”
“My uncle.”
“Vincent has a brother?”
“Had.”
The way he said it made my skin turn cold.
“What happened to him?”
“He betrayed the family twenty-two years ago.”
The same year my mother died.
“What was his name?”
Dante met my eyes.
“Gabriel Romano.”
The ambulance stopped.
Agent Shaw opened the rear door.
“We’re here.”
Outside, rain had begun falling over the narrow street.
Across from us stood the remains of the old clinic basement, hidden beneath a renovated apartment complex.
And beside the service entrance, painted in fresh red letters across the concrete wall, was a message.
May you like
WELCOME BACK, MADELINE.
Below it hung my father’s bloodstained watch.
