Chapter 1 - The Name Behind the Curtain
“Salvatore,” he said.
Emma secured the last stitch she had placed, then stepped back.
“Salvatore what?”
“Russo.”
For a moment, the room seemed to lose its air.
She knew that name.
Everyone in Chicago knew that name.
It appeared on restaurants, development projects, and newspaper articles that used words like alleged with unusual frequency.
Emma looked toward the curtain.
Then at the wound.
Then at the emergency call button.
“I’m getting a physician.”
“You’ve already helped.”
“That doesn’t mean you’ve been properly examined.”
She pressed the button before he could answer.
His gaze shifted toward her wrist.
Her sleeve had pulled back, revealing an old crescent-shaped scar.
“Where did you get that?”
Emma tugged down the fabric.
“Apparently I was injured as a baby.”
“What happened?”
“Nobody knows exactly.”
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Something inside it simply stopped moving.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. Why?”
Before he could answer, Dr. Anika Patel entered with another nurse.
Emma gave a concise account of what she had found and done. Patel’s expression sharpened at the absence of a chart.
Within minutes, the private room became an actual treatment space.
Identification.
Assessment.
Monitoring.
Questions Salvatore did not enjoy.
Emma stepped aside.
Her hands were steady.
The rest of her was beginning to understand what exhaustion had persuaded her to walk into.
Patel caught her in the corridor.
“You should have called immediately.”
“I know.”
“We’ll discuss it after you sleep.”
Emma nodded.
No excuse would make the decision better.
At the nurses’ station, Daniel Ortiz slid a cup of water toward her.
A respiratory therapist, he had known her for three years and could identify trouble by the way she alphabetized supplies when upset.
“You look like you accidentally joined a conspiracy.”
“Don’t joke.”
His smile faded.
“Seriously?”
“Possibly.”
He waited while she drank.
Then walked her to the staff exit.
Outside, dawn had begun turning the parking lot gray.
“Text when you’re home,” he said.
“I’m not twelve.”
“No. Twelve-year-olds sleep more.”
She managed a tired smile.
On the drive, she noticed the first black SUV at a traffic light.
Then another behind it.
She changed lanes.
They changed lanes.
At the next intersection, she pulled into a brightly lit gas station and called hospital security, then the police nonemergency number.
By the time she finished explaining, both vehicles had parked across the street.
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She let it go to voicemail.
A message appeared seconds later.
This is Luca Moretti. Mr. Russo’s security chief. Please remain where you are. There may be a threat connected to the hospital.
Emma stared at the screen.
Then she typed:
You are the threat currently following me.
The reply came quickly.
Understood. We will withdraw. Please speak with the responding officer before going home.
The SUVs moved away.
That frightened her almost as much as their arrival.
An officer took her account and advised her to preserve the messages.
By the time she reached her apartment, the sun was up.
She locked the door.
Checked it.
Set her bag on the kitchen table.
Then her phone rang again.
This time, the caller was her grandmother’s care facility.
“Ms. Shaw? We’ve received a request to transfer Mrs. Nora Shaw to a private residence.”
Emma gripped the counter.
“What?”
“The caller said you authorized it.”
“I authorized nothing.”
The administrator’s voice became firmer.
“Then no transfer will occur.”
Emma gave explicit instructions, confirmed the facility’s verification procedures, and asked that the attempted request be documented.
When the call ended, someone knocked.
Three hard strikes.
She did not approach the door.
“Who is it?”
“A friend of your grandmother’s.”
“What’s your name?”
A pause.
“Dr. Keller.”
Emma looked toward the hospital badge lying beside her keys.
Keller was the physician Salvatore’s men had requested.
He had not worked with Nora.
Not as far as Emma knew.
“Call me from your hospital extension,” she said.
Silence.
Then footsteps moved away.
Emma watched through the peephole until the hallway emptied.
Only then did she notice the envelope pushed beneath the door.
Inside was a photograph.
A woman stood beside a crib, holding a baby with a bandaged wrist.
May you like
On the back, someone had written:
Ask your grandmother who Emilia was.
