Chapter 2 - The Promise He Made Before I Ran
I didn't sleep.
Neither did Marcus.
I knew because every hour, I saw the shadow of his security detail beyond the frosted glass of my hospital room.
At three in the morning, my daughter woke.
She cried softly.
I lifted her carefully.
“I'm here.”
She curled against my chest.
I whispered the only promise I knew how to make.
“No one will take you.”
The words were meant for Sophia.
But they sounded like a challenge to the entire world.
At four, I noticed something.
The hospital's hallway was silent.
Too silent.
No carts.
No nurses.
No voices.
I pressed the call button.
Nothing happened.
I pressed again.
Still nothing.
Then the door opened.
Marcus walked in.
“You called?”
“Yes.”
His eyes immediately went to the monitor.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He frowned.
“Then why did you call?”
“I wanted to see whether anyone would answer.”
His expression sharpened.
“You think the hospital is compromised.”
“I know it is.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody has checked me in four hours.”
He looked toward the hall.
“You're right.”
He took out his phone.
“Get everyone off this floor.”
A voice answered.
He hung up.
Within thirty seconds, men in dark clothing appeared.
I held Sophia tightly.
“Marcus.”
He looked at me.
“Tell me the truth.”
“I am.”
“Who is watching me?”
“I don't know.”
“That isn't good enough.”
“No.”
He sat across from me.
“Three weeks ago, one of my men found a photograph of you in a surveillance file.”
“What kind of file?”
“Internal.”
“Your people were watching me?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“We don't know.”
He showed me another photograph.
My old apartment.
The one I had left six weeks earlier.
A man stood across the street.
His face was hidden.
“Who is he?”
“We're trying to identify him.”
I looked at Marcus.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know whether you were safe.”
“You thought I was working with them?”
“I thought you might have been compromised.”
I stared.
“You thought I was a spy?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I thought someone might be using you to get to me.”
“That's exactly the kind of answer a mafia boss gives.”
He flinched slightly.
I hated that I noticed.
Then he said something that shocked me.
“I don't want to be a mafia boss anymore.”
I stared.
“What?”
“I inherited an organization I spent years believing I could control.”
“And can you?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“I control men.”
He looked toward Sophia.
“I don't control consequences.”
Silence settled between us.
Then he told me how he had grown up.
His father had built the Vitale network.
His mother had died when he was twelve.
His father had taught him that weakness was an invitation.
Marcus had believed him.
Until he met me.
“You never knew?”
“Knew what?”
“That you were changing me.”
I looked away.
“You were still a killer.”
“Yes.”
“I saw what you did.”
“I know.”
“You executed that man.”
“He betrayed the family.”
“You killed him.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
His silence was answer enough.
Tears burned my eyes.
“You expect me to forget that?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Another chance.”
I laughed.
“You had years.”
“I know.”
“Why now?”
“Because you left.”
He leaned forward.
“When you disappeared, I realized I could lose the only person who made me want to become someone else.”
I looked at him.
“You can't become someone else for me.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“For Sophia.”
That name changed him.
He looked toward the baby.
“I don't want her growing up thinking fear is love.”
That sentence stayed with me.
At six, a nurse finally entered.
Marcus immediately stepped forward.
The nurse froze.
“I was told not to disturb the patient.”
Marcus's eyes narrowed.
“By whom?”
The nurse swallowed.
“Administration.”
He looked at me.
I knew what he was thinking.
Someone had issued orders from inside the hospital.
Then the elevator alarm sounded.
Security rushed into the hallway.
The nurse whispered:
“Someone is coming.”
Marcus moved.
He pushed me toward the bathroom.
“Stay there.”
“What?”
“Now.”
He shut the door.
I heard footsteps.
Then voices.
A man said:
“Second floor is clear.”
Another:
“Check the room.”
My heart stopped.
Marcus was standing between them and me.
I heard gunfire.
Then silence.
Seconds later, he opened the bathroom door.
His knuckles were bloody.
Not his blood.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded.
He looked at Sophia.
“She needs to go.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere nobody knows.”
I thought about the passport.
“Your estate?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“My mother had a house.”
I frowned.
“I thought your mother died.”
“She did.”
“What house?”
“One she left before I was old enough to remember.”
He looked at me.
“No one knows it exists.”
We left through an underground service tunnel.
Outside, Chicago was still dark.
For the first time in seven months, I walked beside Marcus instead of running from him.
Not because I trusted him.
Because there was someone worse.
We drove for two hours.
The house was small.
Wooden.
Surrounded by trees.
Nothing like the mansion I remembered.
Marcus opened the door.
Inside were photographs.
One showed a little boy.
Marcus.
Beside his mother.
Another showed an older woman.
Marcus looked at it.
“My grandmother.”
“She raised me after my mother died.”
“Why bring me here?”
“Because nobody would think to look.”
I carried Sophia inside.
Marcus built a fire.
Then he handed me the passport again.
“Eliza Carter is dead.”
“I still don't believe you did this to protect me.”
“I did.”
“What happens if I say no?”
“You walk away.”
I stared.
He continued.
“I'll make sure you have money, documents, protection. But I won't follow.”
“And Sophia?”
His face tightened.
“She is my daughter.”
“But you said I can walk.”
“I will respect your decision.”
That was the first time Marcus gave me something I had desperately wanted.
A choice.
He didn't sleep that night.
He sat outside the room.
I watched him through the crack in the door.
A ruthless crime boss sitting on the floor with his back against the wall.
As if guarding us was more important than pride.
At dawn, I found another photograph on the kitchen table.
Me.
Pregnant.
Taken two months ago.
On the back:
HE DOESN'T KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
I turned.
Marcus was standing there.
“What does that mean?”
He took the picture.
His expression changed.
“This wasn't my surveillance.”
“Then whose?”
He stared at the handwriting.
“I know.”
“Who?”
“Someone from my father's old organization.”
“Dead?”
“No.”
May you like
He looked at me.
“Very much alive.”
