Chapter 3 - THE DEBT VINCENT NEVER FORGOT HIMSELF FOR
My mother survived the night.
Barely.
By two in the morning, she was sedated, intubated, and stable enough that the ICU physician stopped using phrases like minute to minute.
I sat outside her room wearing the same diner uniform.
Coffee had dried on my sleeve.
My shoes hurt.
My entire body felt hollow.
Matteo sat three chairs away.
Vincent stood at the window.
Neither man had left.
That made no sense.
Vincent Moretti probably had ten people who could sit in hospitals for him.
Yet he stayed.
Finally I looked at him.
“Why didn’t she ever tell me?”
Vincent turned.
“She hated my world.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It might.”
He sat opposite me.
The hospital lighting made him look older.
“My enemies returned to the hospital twice after she saved me.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did they threaten her?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I handled it.”
I gave him a look.
“I don’t want details.”
“Good.”
Matteo leaned back.
“That usually means the details are terrible.”
Vincent ignored him.
“Afterward, Grace told me never to contact her again.”
“That sounds like Mom.”
“She said saving a dying idiot did not mean she wanted the idiot in her life.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
Vincent saw it.
“So I stayed away.”
“For thirty-two years?”
“No.”
Something changed in his expression.
“Your father contacted me once.”
I went still.
My father had been dead nine years.
“What?”
“Frank Carter came to see me when you were thirteen.”
“Why?”
“He needed money.”
My stomach dropped.
I remembered that year.
Dad’s construction business nearly collapsed.
For months, my parents whispered at night over bills.
“He borrowed from you?”
“No.”
Vincent looked toward Grace’s ICU room.
“He asked.”
“What happened?”
“Your mother found out.”
I could already imagine it.
“She made him return it.”
“He never took it. She came to my office before I could give him anything and threatened to break my nose.”
Matteo looked amused.
“Apparently that runs in the family.”
I glared at him.
He lifted both hands.
Vincent continued.
“She told me if I gave Frank one dollar, she would tell every cop she knew where I conducted business.”
“That sounds exactly like her.”
“She was terrifying.”
“You throw coffee cups.”
“She carried a tire iron.”
I laughed.
A real laugh.
It felt almost wrong in the ICU hallway.
Then a doctor approached.
“Ms. Carter?”
I stood.
“We completed the emergency review.”
My heart stopped.
“And?”
“Your mother qualifies for the bridge therapy.”
I looked at Matteo.
He was already standing.
“The insurer approved?”
“Yes.”
I nearly collapsed again.
The doctor continued.
“Treatment can begin later this morning.”
“How?”
“The appeals board reversed the previous denial.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“Why?”
The physician hesitated.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Vincent did.
So did Matteo.
Someone had looked again because the Moretti name suddenly appeared beside my mother’s case.
I should have been furious.
Instead, exhaustion won.
“Will it help?”
“It gives her a chance.”
That was enough.
After the physician left, I turned to Matteo.
“Did you call them?”
“No.”
Vincent said, “I did.”
I stared.
“You said you wouldn’t use your ownership.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I asked why three appeals had been denied without a pulmonary specialist sitting on the review panel.”
My anger faltered.
Vincent’s voice turned colder.
“The answer was that the case had been flagged for cost exposure.”
I felt sick.
“What does that mean?”
Matteo answered.
“They thought your mother was too expensive.”
The words hit exactly as badly as I expected.
Vincent looked at his son.
“Find who created that policy.”
“I already started.”
“Remove it.”
Matteo’s eyebrow lifted.
“That requires board approval.”
“Then get approval.”
“And if they refuse?”
Vincent looked toward me.
“Buy the rest of the company.”
I stared at him.
“Do billionaires solve everything by buying it?”
“No.”
His expression darkened.
“Some things require fire.”
“Dad.”
“Metaphorical fire.”
I doubted that.
At six that morning, Matteo convinced me to eat.
Hospital cafeteria eggs.
Toast.
Coffee.
I smelled it before drinking.
Matteo watched.
“You’re checking whether it’s burned.”
“I’m traumatized.”
He smiled.
“You weren’t scared of my father.”
“I was terrified.”
He looked surprised.
“You didn’t show it.”
“I’ve learned fear can exist at the same time as anger.”
His gaze stayed on me.
“That’s unusual.”
“What is?”
“Most people around my family confuse fear with obedience.”
I stirred sugar into the coffee.
“Why don’t you?”
He looked toward the windows.
“I grew up inside it.”
That answer was heavier than I expected.
“Your father seems to care about you.”
“He does.”
“But?”
Matteo was quiet.
“When my older brother was killed, my father became obsessed with keeping me alive.”
I stopped.
I knew Vincent had lost a son.
Everyone in Chicago knew.
Gabriel Moretti.
Twenty-four years old.
Killed in what newspapers called an unsolved robbery eighteen years earlier.
“You were what? Eighteen?”
“Nineteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
Matteo nodded.
“After Gabriel died, protection became control. Drivers. guards. monitored calls. approved friends. approved girlfriends.”
“That explains the magazine headline.”
He looked at me.
“Which one?”
“The prince who refuses the crown.”
“That article was terrible.”
“You looked good.”
He almost choked on his coffee.
I immediately regretted saying it.
Almost.
His eyes met mine.
“Was that a compliment?”
“Don’t get excited.”
“I’m documenting the date.”
Before I could answer, Vincent appeared.
His expression was hard.
“Matteo.”
Something in his voice changed the atmosphere.
Matteo stood.
“What?”
Vincent handed him a phone.
On the screen was a photograph.
Me.
Leaving my apartment two nights earlier.
Taken from across the street.
My blood went cold.
“What is that?”
“Sent to one of my men fifteen minutes ago.”
I took the phone.
A message sat beneath the photograph.
THE WAITRESS HAS YOUR ATTENTION.
NOW WE HAVE HERS.
My throat closed.
“Who sent this?”
Vincent’s expression became terrifyingly calm.
“Someone trying to find out how much you matter to me.”
“I don’t.”
His eyes lifted.
“They don’t know that.”
Matteo looked at him.
“Who?”
“We’re tracing it.”
I pushed the phone back.
“I’m not getting dragged into your war.”
“You already have been.”
“No.”
I stood.
“I go home. I work. I sit with my mother. That’s it.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Not alone.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“This time I do.”
I stepped toward him.
“Throw another cup. See how that works.”
Matteo covered his mouth.
Vincent looked irritated.
“This isn’t funny.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I lowered my voice.
“My mother is in intensive care. I am not moving into some armed mansion because your enemies saw you stand beside her bed.”
“You misunderstand.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“They didn’t photograph Grace.”
My stomach tightened.
“They photographed you.”
Silence.
Matteo took the phone again.
He zoomed in.
The angle.
The timestamp.
My building.
Someone had watched me before the diner confrontation.
Before Vincent knew who I was.
Matteo’s face changed.
“Dad.”
“I see it.”
I looked between them.
“What?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“This wasn’t caused by yesterday.”
A chill moved through me.
Matteo looked at me.
“Someone was already watching you.”
“Why?”
Nobody answered.
Then Vincent asked a question that made my skin turn cold.
“Emily, did your mother keep anything from thirty-two years ago?”
“What kind of thing?”
“Records. Photographs. Notes.”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
I almost snapped at him.
Then I remembered something.
A metal lockbox.
My mother kept it beneath her bed.
She had refused to let me open it even when we sold half the house.
“It may be nothing.”
Vincent’s eyes sharpened.
“What?”
“A box.”
Matteo immediately stood.
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
Vincent and Matteo exchanged one look.
That was all it took.
Vincent reached for his coat.
“We’re going.”
I stared at him.
“To my apartment?”
“If someone is watching you because of something Grace kept, we find it before they do.”
I looked toward the ICU.
“I’m not leaving Mom.”
Matteo spoke quietly.
“I’ll go.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“No strangers in my apartment.”
He looked offended.
“We’ve had breakfast.”
“That does not make you not a stranger.”
Vincent muttered, “I like her.”
“You threw a cup at me.”
“I said I apologized.”
Matteo looked between us.
“This family conversation is becoming disturbing.”
I almost laughed again.
Then Vincent’s phone rang.
One of his security men.
Vincent answered.
His face went completely still.
“When?”
He listened.
Then looked at me.
My stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
Vincent ended the call.
“Your apartment was broken into twenty minutes ago.”
I stopped breathing.
“The lockbox?”
His silence answered.
May you like
Whoever had been watching me was not waiting anymore.
And whatever my mother had hidden for thirty-two years had just become important enough for someone to tear my home apart to find it.
