Chapter 2 - The Wife Who Never Existed
By nine the following morning, I had lost my job, my reputation was in jeopardy, and half of Chicago apparently believed I had secretly married a mafia boss.
Technically, I hadn't lost my job.
Angela Brooks had been very careful about that distinction.
"Administrative leave," she repeated, sitting across from me in a conference room that smelled of coffee and disinfectant. "Pending an internal review."
I had worked at Mercy Harbor for six years, first as an occasional nurse during medical school and then full-time after Lily was born.
I knew the hospital's hallways better than I knew the streets around my apartment.
I knew which elevator broke down twice a month.
I knew which cafeteria employee secretly gave frightened children extra pudding.
I knew the exact sound the pediatric monitors made when an exhausted parent accidentally bumped the alarm button.
The hospital was the one place where my life made sense.
Now I was sitting in a conference room with two attorneys, a human resources representative, and a folder containing documents I had never signed.
"You're saying I approved the purchase of eighteen neonatal warming units?" I asked.
One attorney nodded.
"And six pediatric transport monitoring systems, along with related accessories and training."
"That's impossible."
"Why?"
"Because I don't work in procurement. I'm a pediatric floor nurse."
"Your name appears as the clinical equipment liaison."
"I've never held that position."
Angela leaned forward.
"Jessica, we understand you're disputing the records."
"I'm not disputing them. I'm telling you they're fraudulent."
The second attorney, a woman named Denise Harper, spoke gently.
"That's exactly what we're investigating."
She slid a document across the table.
A photocopy of an identification badge.
My face.
My name.
My employee number.
And beneath it, a digital acknowledgment dated eight months earlier.
I remembered that month.
Lily had contracted pneumonia.
I'd spent three nights at her bedside, terrified by the sound of her breathing, followed by two weeks of juggling work and childcare.
The idea that I had been approving a multimillion-dollar equipment purchase during that period was absurd.
"Where did you get this?"
"From a grant reporting package submitted to the Elena Fioraldi Children's Fund."
My stomach twisted.
Giovanni.
Of course.
He had already shown me one document.
Apparently there were more.
"Who submitted the package?"
Denise checked her notes.
"HarborBridge Procurement Services."
"Owned by Tyler Bennett?"
"He's listed as president."
I pressed my hands together.
Angela's expression softened.
"You know him?"
"He's my ex-husband."
Silence.
Not the sympathetic silence I'd hoped for.
A different kind.
The kind that made everyone reconsider what they thought they knew.
Denise closed the folder.
"Jessica, I strongly recommend that you retain your own attorney."
An hour later, I walked out of Mercy Harbor carrying a cardboard box.
Not because I'd been fired.
Because the hospital had collected my badge and suspended my access while the investigation proceeded.
The distinction did not make the box feel any lighter.
Inside were a coffee mug with faded cartoon dinosaurs, two pens, a framed photograph of Lily, and a small drawing made by a little boy who had spent forty-three days recovering from a complicated surgery.
He'd drawn me wearing a superhero cape.
Underneath he'd written:
NURSE JESS SAVED MY TUESDAY.
I sat in my car and cried.
Not the restrained tears I'd swallowed at the wedding.
Real tears.
The ugly kind that made breathing difficult.
My phone buzzed.
A message from my mother.
Jessica, you need to call me immediately. People are asking questions about Mr. Fioraldi.
I turned the screen facedown.
Another message arrived.
Sophia.
Please tell me you're okay. Daniel and I are still in Chicago. I can come over.
Then another.
An unknown number.
This is Giovanni. I would like to help, but I won't contact you again unless you want me to.
I stared at the message.
No demands.
No instructions.
No assumption that I belonged to him because we'd danced together.
Just an offer.
I didn't respond.
Instead, I drove home.
Our apartment was on the third floor of an aging brick building in Ravenswood.
The radiator hissed every winter.
The kitchen was barely large enough for two people.
The living room carpet had an orange juice stain shaped vaguely like Wisconsin.
And I loved every inch of it.
Because nobody had given it to me.
I had worked for it.
Camilla Torres opened the door before I could find my keys.
She was thirty-two, a school counselor and my closest friend since nursing school.
She watched Lily after kindergarten whenever my shifts ran late.
She had also been the first person to tell me Tyler was cheating, long before I had found the messages.
"Before you say anything," she announced, "I have coffee, leftover pancakes, and a very strong opinion about your mother."
I nearly started crying again.
"That sounds perfect."
She pulled me into a hug.
Lily came racing down the hallway.
"Mommy!"
Five years old, with dark curls, enormous brown eyes, and the unstoppable energy of a child who believed every room existed for the purpose of being explored.
I dropped to my knees.
She crashed into my arms.
"Did Aunt Sophia look like a princess?"
"Even prettier."
"Did she have a big cake?"
"Huge."
"Did you dance?"
I hesitated.
"Actually, I did."
Lily gasped.
"With who?"
"A gentleman named Giovanni."
She considered this.
"Does he have a dog?"
"No."
"Then why did you dance with him?"
Camilla burst out laughing.
I kissed Lily's forehead.
"That's an excellent question."
For the next hour, I helped her build a cardboard castle, pretended not to notice Camilla watching me, and avoided thinking about the hospital.
But children have a remarkable talent for finding the exact moment when adults are trying not to feel something.
Lily climbed into my lap.
"Mommy?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Are you sad?"
I looked at her.
This small, beautiful person Tyler had called a mistake.
The little girl who collected fallen leaves because she thought trees might miss them.
The daughter who left drawings beside my bed whenever I worked overnight.
I brushed a curl away from her forehead.
"A little."
"Did someone hurt your feelings?"
"Yes."
She thought carefully.
Then she wrapped both arms around my neck.
"You're not supposed to hurt people's feelings."
"No," I whispered. "You're not."
She kissed my cheek.
"There. Better."
And somehow, for a moment, it was.
After Camilla took Lily to the playground, I finally returned Giovanni's message.
I need answers. Not favors. Can we talk somewhere public?
He replied almost immediately.
Of course. You choose the place.
I chose a small diner three blocks from my apartment.
It had scratched wooden tables, indifferent coffee, and a waitress named Brenda who had once threatened to chase Tyler out with a broom.
It felt like the safest place in Chicago.
Giovanni arrived twenty minutes later.
Without the ballroom, the chandeliers, or the black tuxedo, he still managed to look unlike anyone else in the room.
He wore dark jeans, a charcoal coat, and a plain black shirt.
Two tattoos disappeared beneath his sleeves.
His hair was short and neatly cut.
He carried no flowers.
No expensive gifts.
Just a thin folder.
He stopped beside my booth.
"May I?"
I nodded.
Brenda appeared with a coffee pot.
She looked him up and down.
"You want coffee?"
"Please."
She filled a cup.
Then she looked at me.
"You okay, Jess?"
"I'm fine."
She gave Giovanni a warning glance.
"She'd better stay that way."
When Brenda walked off, he watched her with something approaching amusement.
"Your friend?"
"That's Brenda. She doesn't like men who make women cry."
"Then I'll try not to disappoint her."
I folded my arms.
"Why did you know my name before the wedding?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Your name appeared repeatedly in financial documents my foundation received. I reviewed the records before attending the wedding."
"So you knew who I was."
"Yes."
"Did you know Tyler was my ex-husband?"
"Not until I heard you arguing."
I studied his face.
"Why were you at my sister's wedding?"
"Daniel Martinelli invited me. Our companies have business interests in common."
"Meaning?"
"My transportation group works with some of the Martinelli restaurants. I was also hoping to speak to Daniel's uncle about irregularities in a vendor contract."
"You went there investigating fraud."
"Partly."
"And when you saw the woman whose name was on your documents getting humiliated, you decided to pretend to be her husband."
He winced slightly.
"When you put it that way—"
"Is there another way?"
"No."
I expected him to defend himself.
Instead, he opened the folder.
"You're right to be angry. I should have explained what I knew before asking you to trust me."
"Then explain now."
He placed three photocopied invoices on the table.
Eight months earlier, the Elena Fioraldi Children's Fund had approved a grant worth $2.8 million to provide medical equipment for several pediatric treatment areas at Mercy Harbor.
The hospital was the intended beneficiary.
HarborBridge Procurement had been hired to acquire, coordinate, and deliver the equipment.
Progress reports and delivery confirmations had been submitted.
The foundation had released payments in stages.
The problem was simple.
Mercy Harbor had never received most of the equipment.
"Where did the money go?" I asked.
"We're tracing it."
"To Tyler?"
"Some payments went to HarborBridge. Others were transferred to subcontractors."
"Who owns those?"
"That's one of the questions we're trying to answer."
I examined the invoices.
Each had a clinical approval line bearing my name.
The signatures weren't perfect.
One had a strange upward curve at the end of Reed.
Another used initials I hadn't used since college.
Someone had copied my signature repeatedly and badly.
"Tyler would know how to imitate my handwriting," I murmured.
"Why?"
"We were married. He had access to my old paperwork. Tax forms. School applications. Everything."
Giovanni remained silent.
I turned another page.
A photograph of a warehouse inventory tag.
A vendor number.
And a delivery address.
"Why does this say Martinelli Distribution?"
"Because HarborBridge used a Martinelli logistics facility for some shipments."
"My sister just married into that family."
"Yes."
I looked up.
"Are you telling me my sister's new husband is involved?"
"I'm telling you I don't know."
I pushed the folder away.
The implications were becoming unbearable.
A stolen hospital grant.
My forged signature.
My ex-husband's company.
My sister's new family.
And a mafia boss sitting across from me, calmly connecting the pieces.
"Why didn't you go directly to the authorities?"
"We did. Our attorney provided preliminary records to federal investigators. They're reviewing them."
"Then why do you need me?"
"Because someone used your credentials. You can establish what you did and didn't authorize."
I shook my head.
"I don't want to be involved with your family."
"I understand."
"Your world scares me."
"It should."
The honesty startled me.
Giovanni looked down at his coffee.
"My father built his fortune with methods I wouldn't defend. I inherited more than his companies. I inherited enemies, obligations, and a reputation that's difficult to escape."
"Are the stories about you true?"
"Some."
"Have you hurt people?"
His expression became very still.
"I have done things I'm not proud of."
I waited.
He didn't offer excuses.
"Then why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't. Not because I ask you to."
The diner seemed unexpectedly quiet.
"Verify everything," he continued. "Speak to an attorney. Speak to the hospital. Make your own decisions. If you want nothing more to do with me after this conversation, I'll respect that."
I studied him.
For years, Tyler had demanded trust while lying.
Giovanni, a man with every reason to insist upon his authority, was telling me not to take his word for anything.
It didn't make him safe.
But it made him different.
"There's one more thing," he said.
My stomach sank.
"What?"
"The financial records contain an additional name."
He turned to the final page.
At the bottom was a signature.
Thomas Reed.
My father.
I stared at it.
"That's impossible."
"Your father signed a financial certification for a company that received part of the grant money."
"No. He wouldn't."
"Jessica—"
"My father is an accountant. He worked in corporate finance for thirty years. He might be difficult and judgmental, but he wouldn't steal from sick children."
Giovanni didn't answer.
And somehow that silence hurt more than an accusation.
I grabbed the folder.
"I'm leaving."
He stood but made no attempt to stop me.
"Keep the copies."
"I don't want them."
"You need them."
"Why?"
"Because if someone forged your signature once, they may have forged it on other documents."
I hesitated.
Then I took the folder.
Outside, the rain had finally stopped.
I walked home with my coat pulled tight around me, trying to convince myself that there had to be an innocent explanation.
By the time I reached my apartment, my father was waiting outside.
He stood beside a silver sedan, his expression grim.
"Jessica."
I stopped.
"How did you know I'd be here?"
"Your mother told me."
He looked at the folder in my hand.
Then at my face.
"You've been speaking to Giovanni Fioraldi."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
My father closed his eyes briefly.
"Tell me exactly what he showed you."
I stared at him.
"Why?"
"Because there are things you don't understand."
"Then explain them."
He stepped closer.
His voice dropped.
"Whatever Fioraldi told you, do not sign anything. Do not speak to the police without an attorney. And most importantly—"
He looked toward the apartment building.
Toward the windows where Lily was playing.
"Don't tell anyone what happened to the money."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"What happened to the money, Dad?"
He didn't answer.
May you like
Instead, he whispered something that would haunt me for weeks.
"Your ex-husband isn't the person you need to be afraid of."
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