Chapter 5 - THE NIGHT BEFORE THE CANDLES
Nico wanted Sofia out of Chicago.
This time, I agreed.
Almost.
“We move her tonight,” he said.
“To where?”
“One of my properties in Wisconsin.”
“Who knows about it?”
“My people.”
I stared.
He understood immediately.
“That’s the problem.”
“Yes.”
Roman had spent eleven years building Nico’s security systems.
Every safe house.
Every driver.
Every private airfield.
Every emergency route.
The most dangerous place Sofia could go might be anywhere Roman already expected.
So we did something Nico hated.
We went ordinary.
A pediatric pulmonologist we trusted arranged a private family apartment connected to a children’s hospital residency program.
No Vitali property.
No family employee.
No hidden mansion.
Sofia stayed there with me and one outside security officer.
Nico did not come.
Too visible.
Sofia hated that.
“Dad misses my birthday?”
“He’ll be there tomorrow.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“He will.”
“You promised.”
I paused.
No.
I had promised before that I would not promise things I couldn’t control.
“I believe he will.”
She looked disappointed.
Then nodded.
Better truth than comforting lie.
The next morning, Nico called.
Roman had surfaced.
Not physically.
Through a lawyer.
He denied everything.
Claimed he had taken “personal leave” after feeling insulted by Nico’s suspicions.
The inhaler?
He said pharmacy mistake.
Medical-room access?
Routine concern.
Daniel?
He denied knowing him beyond gambling circles.
Forged medication log?
No connection.
All plausible enough to delay action.
Then Daniel disappeared.
That hurt more than I expected.
Not because I trusted him.
Because he was still my father.
His apartment door stood open.
Phone gone.
Clothes missing.
But no sign of struggle.
Nico’s investigators found a bus ticket purchased under his name.
St. Louis.
He might have run.
Or Roman wanted us to think he had.
The birthday moved forward because Sofia insisted.
“I’m not letting Uncle Roman steal eight.”
That sentence came from an eight-year-old who was not yet eight.
Nico looked at me.
I could see the moment he realized fear had already taken enough from her.
“Fine,” he said.
The party began at six.
White flowers.
Small orchestra.
Chocolate cake because Sofia hated vanilla.
Twenty guests.
Every invitation reverified.
All staff screened by outside security.
I wore navy.
Not because I was family.
Not because I knew what I was to Nico.
Because Sofia asked.
“You always wear boring black.”
“I do not.”
“You dress like sadness.”
Seven-year-olds were cruel.
At seven forty, Nico found me near the ballroom doors.
“You look nice.”
I stared.
“That’s your line?”
“I don’t have lines.”
“Clearly.”
His eyes softened.
Six months had changed him.
Or maybe changed what I could see.
He was still dangerous.
Still controlled illegal businesses.
Still carried a history I did not romanticize.
But with Sofia, he was a father first.
With me?
Something had begun quietly.
Coffee after midnight.
Arguments.
His hand occasionally brushing mine and both of us noticing too much.
Nothing more.
Not yet.
“You could leave after tonight,” he said.
I frowned.
“What?”
“You came because your father forced the circumstances.”
“I chose to stay.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because Roman built a plan around you.”
“And?”
“And I need to know you’re not staying because you think you owe us.”
I looked at him.
“Do you want me to go?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Honest.
My pulse changed.
“Then stop inventing noble ways to get rejected.”
His mouth almost smiled.
The orchestra changed songs.
Sofia ran toward us.
White dress.
Silver shoes.
Hair falling from the elaborate style she had already destroyed.
“Cake!”
Nico’s expression transformed.
“Apparently I’ve been summoned.”
“You’re terrified of her.”
“Yes.”
We walked into the ballroom.
Guests gathered.
Sofia stood before eight candles.
Nico beside her.
I stayed several feet away.
For one perfect moment, everything looked ordinary.
Then I noticed a waiter.
Wrong shoes.
Every banquet employee wore black non-slip dress shoes.
His were tactical boots.
My stomach dropped.
I looked at his face.
I had seen him before.
Roman’s security office.
Six months earlier.
A night guard.
I opened my mouth.
The first bullet came through the ballroom window.
It struck the silver candelabrum.
Every flame went out.
For half a second, nobody understood.
Then glass exploded.
Screaming.
Nico grabbed Sofia.
The fake waiter reached inside his jacket.
Not toward Nico.
Toward Sofia.
I moved without thinking.
I hit the man’s arm.
The shot struck marble.
He shoved me.
Another burst came through the windows.
Nico pulled Sofia behind the cake table.
Guests dropped to the floor.
I saw the second shooter outside.
His weapon tracked past Nico.
Past security.
Straight toward the white dress.
“Sofia!”
She looked up.
Wrong moment.
I ran.
I remember Nico shouting my name.
I remember Sofia’s face.
I remember six violent cracks.
Then impact.
Heat.
My body turned.
I fell across Sofia.
Marble hit my cheek.
Someone screamed.
Maybe me.
Maybe Nico.
The ballroom filled with smoke and broken crystal.
Nico’s outside security returned fire while guests crawled behind stone columns.
The fake waiter tried to run.
Two officers tackled him.
My hearing disappeared into a high ringing sound.
Sofia was beneath me.
Alive.
Crying.
“Clara.”
“I’m here.”
My voice sounded far away.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
Good.
That was all that mattered.
Then Nico reached us.
His face.
I would remember his face forever.
The man everyone called a monster looked terrified.
He lifted me enough to see blood spreading across my dress.
“Clara.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
“I know.”
Bad habit.
His hand pressed against my side.
Blood covered it.
Sofia screamed.
“Dad!”
“I have her.”
Nico’s voice broke.
Actually broke.
Paramedics arrived through a service door.
I tried to keep my eyes open.
Nico stayed beside me.
Someone said:
“Two wounds. One shoulder. One abdomen.”
Someone else:
“Pressure dropping.”
I looked at Nico.
“Don’t.”
His face was inches from mine.
“Don’t what?”
“Do the thing.”
“What thing?”
“Kill Chicago.”
His laugh came out like pain.
“You’re giving me instructions right now?”
“Yes.”
“Shut up.”
“Ask.”
His eyes filled.
Even then.
Even bleeding on his floor, I made him say it correctly.
“Clara.”
His voice shook.
“Will you please stop talking and let them save you?”
I smiled.
“Better.”
Then everything went black.
I woke seventeen hours later.
Sofia was alive.
Nico was beside my bed.
Roman Vitali had vanished again.
And on the hospital television, every news station in Chicago was reporting the same thing:
ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION AT VITALI ESTATE.
They got one part wrong.
The attack had not been meant for Nico.
Ballistics proved the shooters’ angles converged on one person.
Sofia.
Then Nico’s attorney entered carrying evidence recovered from the fake waiter.
A phone.
Inside was a message sent two minutes before the shooting.
WHITE DRESS CONFIRMED.
And beneath it:
May you like
IF THE NURSE GETS IN THE WAY, EVEN BETTER. SHE WAS ALWAYS SUPPOSED TO TAKE THE BLAME.
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