Chapter 2 - The Photograph in His Pocket
I spent the next morning pretending to sleep.
It was the only way anyone around Dominic Rossi ever spoke honestly.
Doctors came and went.
Nurses checked my breathing.
Two men I had never met stood outside the door pretending not to be guards.
And Dominic remained near the window, speaking quietly into his phone.
“No police reports.”
Pause.
“No. Costa hears nothing about Cleveland.”
Another pause.
“If someone touches Ellen, I want the name before I want the body.”
My eyes opened.
“That sounds healthy.”
Dominic ended the call.
“You should be asleep.”
“You should stop threatening people within ten feet of my hospital bed.”
“They weren’t within ten feet.”
I glared at him.
His mouth almost moved.
Almost a smile.
It made me angrier.
“Tell me about my father.”
The humor vanished.
“No.”
“You had his photograph.”
“Yes.”
“With a message telling you to protect me.”
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to accept ‘no’?”
“For today.”
“You really love that phrase.”
Dominic crossed the room and sat in the chair Isabella had used.
I had never seen him sit beside me before.
Standing made him look powerful.
Sitting made him look tired.
“My father died when I was six,” I said.
“I know.”
“My mother told me it was an accident.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know what she told you.”
“You knew her too?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
He looked toward the window.
“That depends on what you consider well.”
“Did she work for your family?”
“No.”
“Did my father?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
The answer hurt more than I expected.
“What did he do?”
“Accounting.”
I stared.
“My father was an accountant for a crime family?”
“He was an accountant for Rossi Imports.”
“That sounds very legitimate.”
“It was legitimate.”
“Was?”
Dominic didn’t answer.
I looked down at the ring.
“Why would he ask you to protect me?”
Dominic’s eyes lowered toward it too.
“Because he knew he might not survive.”
“Survive what?”
Before he answered, the door opened.
Isabella walked in with coffee.
“You’re interrogating her again?” Dominic asked.
“I brought coffee.”
“For yourself.”
“Obviously. She has hospital coffee.”
“You’re cruel.”
“You were raised by me.”
Their exchange should have made me laugh.
Instead, I stared at Isabella.
“You knew my father.”
Her steps slowed.
She set the coffee down.
“Yes.”
“Everyone knows my father except me.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Neither is waking up married to a stranger.”
Dominic stood.
“I’ll give you two privacy.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You stay.”
Something about that surprised both him and Isabella.
I pointed weakly toward the photograph on the bedside table.
“Tell me why you had that.”
Dominic returned to his chair.
Isabella sighed.
“Your father’s name was Daniel Mercer.”
I nodded.
“He was one of the best forensic accountants I ever met.”
I frowned.
“You?”
“I ran the legitimate side of several family companies after my husband died.”
I looked at Dominic.
“Your father?”
His expression closed.
Isabella continued.
“Daniel discovered irregular transfers involving a group of companies connected to Victor Costa.”
My pulse quickened.
“He reported them?”
“He tried.”
“What happened?”
Isabella looked at Dominic.
He stared at the floor.
“Someone leaked that he was gathering evidence.”
“And?”
“He ran,” Dominic said.
His voice was quiet.
“He took Ellen and you.”
I looked between them.
“My mother told me we moved because Dad got a new job.”
“He was trying to keep you alive.”
My mouth went dry.
“How did he die?”
No one answered.
“Dominic.”
Still nothing.
“Was it an accident?”
His gaze finally lifted.
“No.”
One word.
Twenty years of my childhood collapsed around it.
I turned my face away.
The monitor beside me beeped steadily.
I remembered my mother crying behind closed doors.
I remembered moving to Ohio.
I remembered being told never to ask why we didn’t visit New York anymore.
I remembered a little cardboard box of my father’s belongings that Ellen kept locked for years.
“Costa killed him?”
Isabella answered carefully.
“Victor ordered people to find him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Dominic spoke.
“Your father died because men were looking for information he had.”
Something about the wording bothered me.
“Not because they were trying to kill him?”
Dominic’s silence returned.
I looked at Isabella.
She looked away.
There was more.
Much more.
But neither of them intended to tell me.
“Get out.”
Dominic stood.
“Both of you.”
Isabella touched my hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“Please.”
They left.
I cried after the door closed.
Quietly.
Because even after seven bullets, apparently I still had enough pride to refuse to let Dominic Rossi watch me break.
Later that afternoon a physical therapist helped me sit upright.
It felt like my entire body had been stitched together with fire.
“You’re lucky,” she said.
I hated that word.
Lucky was finding twenty dollars in an old coat.
Lucky was getting an extra shift when rent was due.
Lucky was not being shot seven times.
But I nodded.
By evening, I could stand for eleven seconds.
Dominic watched from outside the room.
He thought I didn’t see him.
I did.
The next two days became a strange rhythm.
Doctors.
Pain medication.
Dominic.
Isabella.
Enzo.
Guards.
No outside calls unless someone approved them.
That finally broke me.
“I want my phone.”
Dominic looked up from a folder.
“No.”
“I’m asking once.”
“No.”
“I am a grown woman.”
“You are a target.”
“I need to call my boss.”
“The diner knows.”
“You called my boss?”
“Enzo did.”
I looked at Enzo.
He shrugged.
“Nice guy. Terrible coffee.”
“You’ve been to my diner?”
“We investigated everything.”
Everything.
I looked at Dominic.
“My apartment?”
“Secured.”
“My landlord?”
“Paid.”
My eyes narrowed.
“You paid my rent?”
“For six months.”
“Undo it.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“I don’t want your money.”
“You nearly died protecting my mother.”
“That doesn’t make me your employee.”
“It wasn’t payment.”
“Then what was it?”
His eyes softened unexpectedly.
“Making sure you had a home to return to.”
That shut me up for three seconds.
Then I remembered I was angry.
“I still want my phone.”
He handed it over.
Victory.
Until I saw that it was new.
“This isn’t mine.”
“Yours had a bullet through it.”
Of course it did.
I called my mother.
No answer.
I called again.
Straight to voicemail.
Dominic watched me.
“She might be resting.”
“My mother answers me.”
“She’s receiving treatment.”
“She still answers.”
I called the treatment center.
A receptionist transferred me twice.
Then a nurse picked up.
“Ms. Mercer?”
“Yes.”
A strange pause.
“Your mother isn’t in her room.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where is she?”
“We’re checking.”
“What does that mean?”
Dominic was already standing.
The nurse lowered her voice.
“Her morning appointment was canceled.”
“By whom?”
“We don’t know.”
Dominic took his own phone out.
I heard Enzo moving in the hallway.
“When was she last seen?” I asked.
“Approximately two hours ago.”
“Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“We had a contact listed from New York.”
My eyes snapped toward Dominic.
“What contact?”
Another pause.
“Mr. Rossi.”
I hung up.
“You put yourself on my mother’s records?”
“I had someone add an emergency contact after the attack.”
“Without asking either of us?”
“I needed immediate notification if anything happened.”
“Well, something happened.”
Enzo entered.
“Car is ready.”
Dominic turned toward him.
“Cleveland team?”
“Not answering.”
Every trace of warmth disappeared from Dominic’s face.
“What?”
“Both phones dead.”
Isabella appeared behind him.
“What happened?”
“My mother is missing.”
Her hand went to her mouth.
Dominic came toward me.
“We’ll find her.”
“We?”
“You’re staying here.”
I laughed once.
“You are completely out of your mind.”
“You have stitches across half your torso.”
“And that woman spent twenty years taking care of me.”
“You can barely walk.”
“Then get me a wheelchair.”
“No.”
I pulled the IV tape from my arm.
Dominic grabbed my wrist.
Not hard.
But enough.
Our eyes met.
“Let go.”
He did immediately.
That mattered.
Not enough.
But it mattered.
“I’m going to Cleveland.”
“You’ll die before you reach Pennsylvania.”
“Then stop me.”
We stared at each other.
Enzo coughed.
“I wouldn’t.”
Dominic looked at him.
Enzo lifted both hands.
“Just professional advice.”
Forty-five minutes later, I was being moved through a private hospital exit in a wheelchair, wearing loose clothes Isabella had brought me.
Dominic walked beside me.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered.
“You married me.”
He looked at me.
“Fair.”
The underground garage was heavily guarded.
A black SUV waited with its doors open.
As Enzo helped me inside, something slipped from Dominic’s coat onto the seat.
A photograph.
Not the one of my parents.
This one was newer.
I picked it up.
It showed my mother outside the Cleveland treatment center.
Taken from a distance.
The date stamp was six months earlier.
Six months.
My fingers went cold.
Dominic climbed into the SUV and saw what I was holding.
His face changed.
“How long,” I whispered, “have you been watching my mother?”
No answer.
I turned the photograph over.
There was another note.
Three lines.
ELLEN MERCER CONFIRMED.
DAUGHTER WORKING QUEENS.
DO NOT APPROACH UNTIL ROSSI AUTHORIZATION.
I looked at him.
“You found us months ago.”
Dominic’s eyes closed briefly.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer never came.
Enzo’s phone rang.
He listened for three seconds.
Then his face drained.
“Boss.”
Dominic turned.
“They found Ellen’s car.”
“Where?”
“Outside Cleveland.”
“Is she in it?”
“No.”
Enzo swallowed.
“There’s something else.”
He held up his phone.
A photograph had been sent anonymously.
My mother sat in a chair.
Alive.
Terrified.
Behind her stood a man holding a newspaper.
Across the newspaper, someone had written four words in black marker.
BRING ME DANIEL’S DAUGHTER.
And suddenly I understood.
Victor Costa hadn’t kidnapped my mother to punish Dominic.
May you like
He had taken her because of me.
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