Chapter 9 - The Route Before the Shooting
We moved therapy immediately.
No warehouse.
No predictable schedule.
Daniel arranged access to a private rehabilitation facility owned by a former colleague.
Sessions happened at irregular times.
Different vehicles.
Different entrances.
It felt absurd.
A man learning to stand shouldn't need counter-surveillance.
But this was my life now.
Detective Hayes detained Eddie Vale for questioning.
He admitted taking money from Dominic.
Twenty thousand dollars over four months.
His job had been simple.
Report visitors.
Photograph documents.
Listen for changes in my condition.
He claimed he knew nothing about the shooting.
Hayes believed that part might be true.
Dominic had compartmentalized everything.
No one person knew the whole plan.
Except maybe Arya.
Or Dominic himself.
The harbor closing remained scheduled.
Three days away.
Detective Hayes wanted it canceled.
I refused.
“You're using yourself as bait,” she said.
“No. The property.”
“Same difference.”
“If we cancel, Dominic knows we know.”
“He already knows someone is looking for Lena.”
“He doesn't know what she told us.”
“You don't know that.”
She was right.
Again.
I was becoming surrounded by irritatingly reasonable people.
The biggest break came from Lena's old laptop.
Police recovered it from a storage unit.
Most messages had been deleted.
Not all.
One email thread survived in an offline cache.
Dominic to Lena.
Subject: Route adjustment.
Dated four days before my shooting.
Make sure Vincent uses the eastern service entrance after the Pier Seven meeting. Construction on the main gate gives us a good excuse.
Lena replied:
Why does it matter which entrance?
Dominic:
Security planning. Just handle it.
Four days later, my driver had been told the main entrance was closed for electrical repairs.
I used the eastern service road.
The exact road captured by the cold-storage camera.
The road where Mason Trent's truck appeared.
Hayes read the email twice.
“This is significant.”
“Enough?”
“Not enough to charge him with attempted murder.”
“Yet.”
“Yet.”
Police located Mason's bank activity.
He had received $150,000 from a consulting entity six days after the shooting.
The entity traced back through two companies.
One director.
Dominic Russo.
Arthur removed his glasses.
“Well.”
Sal stopped pacing.
Tessa whispered:
“That's it.”
Hayes shook her head.
“It's strong. But payment after a crime does not automatically prove payment for the crime.”
“What would?” I asked.
“Mason.”
“Find him.”
“We are.”
My anger had become oddly calm.
Six months earlier, imagining the shooter had filled me with rage.
Now, with Dominic's shadow over every piece, I felt something colder.
Grief.
He had been my brother.
Not by blood.
By choice.
That somehow made the betrayal worse.
At therapy that afternoon, I failed repeatedly.
Daniel strapped braces around my knees and helped me into the parallel bars.
“Push.”
I pushed.
My arms shook.
Nothing.
“Again.”
I tried.
My left leg activated.
My right didn't.
My knee buckled.
Daniel and Tessa caught me.
“Again.”
Daniel shook his head.
“Rest.”
“Again.”
“Vincent.”
“Again.”
Tessa stepped in front of me.
“No.”
I glared at her.
“Move.”
“No.”
“I'm not your patient anymore.”
“Exactly, which means I can tell you when you're being an idiot without worrying about HR.”
Daniel looked away to hide a smile.
“This isn't about walking,” she said.
“Of course it is.”
“No.”
She lowered her voice.
“This is about Dominic.”
I hated how accurately she saw me.
“He took enough.”
“So don't let him take your judgment too.”
My grip tightened around the bars.
For a moment, I wanted to shout.
Instead I closed my eyes.
The rage passed slowly.
Daniel lowered me into the wheelchair.
“Recovery isn't punishment,” he said.
“What?”
“You don't get better faster by hating your body.”
I looked away.
“Easy for you to say.”
“Yes.”
His answer surprised me.
“It is easy for me to say. I'm not the one doing it.”
He crouched.
“But I can tell you this: your spinal cord doesn't care whether you're angry at Dominic. It responds to repetition, rest, nutrition, time, and luck.”
“Luck hasn't exactly favored me.”
“You survived a gunshot to the spine.”
I stared at him.
“Depends how you define luck.”
Tessa said quietly:
“You're here.”
That ended the argument.
That evening, Arya joined me on the terrace.
Autumn air rolled off the harbor.
She draped a blanket across my legs.
The gesture was almost tender.
“Wedding planner says Saturday.”
Three days after the harbor signing.
“Fast.”
“You suggested sooner.”
“I did.”
She poured wine.
I declined.
“You never refuse Barolo.”
“Medication.”
A lie.
I wanted my mind clear.
She drank alone.
After a while she said:
“Do you ever think about the night you were shot?”
“Every day.”
“Do you remember anything?”
My attention sharpened.
“Why?”
“I'm curious.”
“About what?”
“Whether you saw anyone.”
“No.”
That was true.
The shooter had been behind me.
“Did you hear anything?”
“Rain.”
“Nothing else?”
I looked at her.
“Arya.”
“What?”
“You sound like a detective.”
She laughed too quickly.
“Sorry.”
She drank.
Then:
“Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if you'd taken a different entrance.”
My entire body went still.
She didn't notice.
“Different entrance?”
“The main gate.”
“How did you know I used the east service road?”
Silence.
There are moments when a person realizes they have stepped off a cliff but gravity hasn't caught them yet.
Arya had one.
“I assumed.”
“No.”
“What?”
“The police never publicly released which entrance I used.”
She put down the glass.
“Dominic told me.”
Maybe.
Possibly.
But her fear said more.
“When?”
“I don't remember.”
“You remember everything about that night.”
“Of course I don't.”
“You remember what dress you wore to the hospital.”
“That isn't the same.”
“Who told you I used the east entrance?”
Her eyes hardened.
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“I'm asking a question.”
She stood.
“I won't do this.”
“Then answer.”
“Dominic told me.”
“When?”
“After.”
“After what?”
“After the shooting.”
She walked inside.
I let her go.
Then I called Hayes from the secure phone.
“Arya knew the route.”
Hayes was silent.
“How?”
“She said Dominic told her.”
“Could be true.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“But she asked whether I remember hearing anything.”
Hayes exhaled.
“She's worried.”
“About what I remember.”
“Maybe.”
“No.”
I watched Arya through the windows.
She stood in the drawing room, typing rapidly on her phone.
“Not maybe.”
Hayes said:
“Do not confront her again.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it.”
“Detective.”
“What?”
“Get a warrant for her messages.”
“That's not how warrants work.”
“Then make it work however warrants work.”
She muttered something impolite.
The next morning, Hayes called before sunrise.
Mason Trent had been found.
Alive.
Living under his brother's name in rural Pennsylvania.
State police were bringing him in.
I asked one question.
“Is he talking?”
Hayes paused.
“He asked whether Dominic Russo can protect him.”
My heart hammered.
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“Which is?”
“Dominic may not be able to protect himself much longer.”
Two hours later, Mason requested an attorney.
By noon, negotiations began.
By evening, prosecutors were discussing immunity on unrelated offenses in exchange for cooperation.
And at 7:14 p.m., Hayes called me.
Her voice was quiet.
“We know who paid him.”
I already knew.
Still, hearing it hurt.
“Dominic?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“What was he paid to do?”
Another pause.
“Mason says Dominic hired him to frighten you.”
“Frighten me how?”
“Fire near you. Miss deliberately. Make you believe a competitor was escalating.”
My hand went cold.
“But he didn't miss.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Mason claims you turned unexpectedly.”
I remembered.
My phone had vibrated.
I had pivoted.
A meaningless movement.
Half a second.
Enough.
“So Dominic wanted me scared.”
“According to Mason.”
“Why?”
“To pressure you into increasing security and temporarily transferring operational authority.”
I laughed.
A dark, empty sound.
“He wanted control.”
“Yes.”
“And when the bullet actually hit me?”
“Dominic adapted.”
Adapted.
A word for business plans.
Weather.
Construction delays.
Not a shattered spine.
“Does Mason have proof?”
“He kept messages.”
Finally.
Something solid.
Encrypted chats.
Payment instructions.
Photos.
One message from Dominic sent hours before the shooting:
Do not hit him. Make it close enough that he understands.
Dominic had not ordered my paralysis.
But he had created the situation that caused it.
Legally, morally, emotionally, the distinction meant almost nothing to me.
He had pointed danger at my back.
Then spent six months pretending to help me survive the result.
I sat alone in the dark.
For the first time since this began, I didn't want strategy.
I didn't want evidence.
I didn't want revenge.
I wanted my friend back.
The one I thought I had.
But that man had apparently disappeared long before the bullet ever reached me.
A soft knock came.
Tessa entered.
Sal had let her in through the rear.
She saw my face.
“They told you.”
“Yes.”
She sat beside me.
For several minutes, nothing was said.
Then:
“He wasn't trying to paralyze me.”
She understood immediately.
“But he caused it.”
“Yes.”
“He wanted to scare me.”
“Yes.”
I laughed once.
“That's almost worse.”
“Why?”
“Because my entire life changed because Dominic wanted leverage in a boardroom.”
Tessa's eyes filled.
“I'm sorry.”
I hated the phrase.
But from her, I let it stay.
After a while she reached for my hand.
Not as a caregiver.
Not to check circulation.
Not to move me.
Just to hold it.
I let her.
At midnight, Hayes called again.
“Don't go through with tomorrow's harbor signing.”
“Why?”
“We have enough to move on Dominic soon.”
“How soon?”
“Forty-eight hours, maybe less.”
“Then tomorrow matters.”
“Vincent—”
“If he thinks the deal is closing, he'll show us everything.”
“He may also realize he's cornered.”
“I know.”
“That makes him dangerous.”
I looked down at Tessa's hand still resting near mine.
“I know that too.”
Tomorrow, Dominic would enter my house believing he was finally getting Pier Seven.
Instead, the man he had tried to control would be waiting.
Still in a wheelchair.
Still unable to walk.
But no longer helpless.
May you like
And this time, Dominic would be the one who didn't know what was coming.
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