“After spending the night in the office yesterday, we were headed to your home so he could rest. The driver pulled up in front of the fountain. I got out of the car first and as soon as he climbed out, there was a gunshot. Your father went down, clutching his chest. I don’t know where it came from but some of the security guards took off in the direction of the shot. We got him to the hospital as fast as we could.”
“Okay.” I nod. “You should go and get changed. I’ll stay here. How long did the doctor say the surgery will take?”
“It should be over in about an hour.”
She leaves and then it’s just me, my eyes swimming with tears that I refuse to let fall. One of my biggest fears is losing my father. After my mom died, I’ve lived with the terror of my only remaining parent passing on as well.
I need him. Despite how I’ve acted this past year, I need him to survive this.
And even bigger than the fear rolling through me is the thought that this is all my fault. I may have put him in danger. If I’m the reason my father dies, I’ll never forgive myself.
I’ve barely been able to forgive myself for my mother.
I sink into one of the waiting room chairs, pressing my palms flat against my knees. The corridor is quiet up here. A different kind of quiet from the lobby—something heavier, watchful. I stare at the closed theatre doors and try to breathe.
My phone buzzes.
I almost don’t look. Then I do.
It’s not Matteo. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but the text makes my stomach drop.
Unknown: You should know better, Prosecutor. Consider this a warning. Drop the case—or the next bullet won’t miss.
The phone trembles in my hand. I read the message again. Then again.
I’m still staring at it when a different kind of sound breaks through the corridor. Not a monitor. Not footsteps. Something rawer than that.
A woman’s voice, low and strained, coming from somewhere around the corner.
I’m on my feet before I fully decide to be. I follow the sound, turning down the adjacent hallway—and stop.
Salvatore Vitale is standing at the nurses’ station, one large hand braced against the counter, looking like a man who has misplaced the single most important thing he’s ever owned. Behind him, two of his men hover uselessly. One of the nurses is speaking to him quickly, calmly, in the practiced tone of someone managing chaos for a living.
The sound I heard wasn’t a voice.
It was Valentina. Through a closed door at the end of the hall, muffled and unmistakable.
Something cold moves through me.
“Salvatore.”
He turns at my voice. Whatever he was expecting to see around that corner, it wasn’t me. A beat passes where we simplylook at each other—prosecutor and Don, connected only by the woman we both love more than we’re comfortable admitting.
“Lindsay.” His voice is rough. “Why are you here?”
“My father.” I gesture vaguely toward the fourth floor waiting room. “He was shot this morning. He’s in surgery.” I nod toward the closed door. “Is that Valentina?”
Something in Salvatore’s expression cracks. Just slightly. Just enough.
“She went into labor two hours ago,” he says. “I got the call and came straight here. She’s—” He stops. Jaw working. “The doctors say everything is progressing normally, but she’s been asking for you.”
She’s been asking for you.
All of our weeks of silence. My coldness. The way I pushed her out of the hotel room when she came to check on me. And still, she’s here, in labor, asking for me.
“Can I go in?” I ask.
He looks at me for a moment, assessing, the way all Vitale men seem to do automatically, and then he steps aside.
