Chapter 8 - MY BROTHER FINALLY LEARNED THAT LOVE WAS NOT A BAILOUT
Gabe left treatment three months later.
He looked healthier.
Not magically cured.
Addiction does not disappear because kidnappers scare you straight.
He had meetings.
Financial counseling.
A sponsor.
Restrictions on gambling apps.
A repayment plan for the original principal that Enzo’s company had transferred away from Rostov.
He hated it.
Good.
We met at a diner.
Same one Enzo’s investigator had photographed months earlier.
I chose it deliberately.
Gabe noticed.
“Creepy.”
“Yes.”
“Why here?”
“Because I want the memory to belong to us again.”
He nodded.
Then ordered coffee.
No betting screens.
Good.
“I got a job.”
“Where?”
“Auto-parts distributor.”
“Doing?”
“Inventory.”
“Legal?”
He glared.
I smiled.
“Had to ask.”
He slid first repayment receipt across table.
Two hundred dollars.
Not to me.
To the independent debt trust.
“I know it’s nothing.”
“It’s not.”
“I owe twenty-four grand.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be forty.”
“Maybe.”
He looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“Using you as emergency fund.”
“Giving Rostov my information.”
“Lying.”
“Making you feel like if you didn’t save me, I’d die.”
That last one hit.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
“I kept thinking you were mean when you stopped helping.”
“I know.”
“You were right.”
I smiled.
“Careful.”
“Don’t get used.”
Then he said:
“I need to tell you something else.”
Of course.
“What?”
“Rostov didn’t find Dad through me.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“He already knew Dad had left something.”
“Yes.”
“But he kept asking about you because someone inside Marchetti told him Enzo was watching you.”
“Sebastian?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Gabe swallowed.
“Carlo.”
Not surprise.
But:
“How do you know?”
“Rostov complained once.”
“He said, ‘Old man Marchetti should’ve handled Hall’s daughter himself.’”
My skin went cold.
“Old man?”
“Carlo.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“He said Enzo was making same mistake as Vittorio.”
“Which was?”
“Thinking he could clean dirty money without dirty people noticing.”
There.
Enzo’s attempt to reform had started before crash.
Not complete.
But motive.
Gabe continued.
“Rostov said if you got inside, they had two chances.”
“What two?”
“Either you followed instructions.”
“Or they could make Enzo think you did.”
That chilled me.
A framed nurse.
If Enzo deteriorated or died after I arrived, my financial desperation, Gabe’s debt, and contact with Rostov could make me perfect suspect.
Enzo’s dossier might have saved me legally by documenting threats.
It was still gathered wrongly.
Complexity everywhere.
I gave statement to Mercer.
Then went to my new job.
Yes.
New job.
I had accepted a position at Northwestern’s neurological rehabilitation unit under Dr. Patel’s recommendation.
Not with her directly.
No special title.
No Enzo.
The first paycheck arrived.
I paid rent.
Paid overdue storage.
Bought a used 2016 Honda Civic.
Cash down payment from my salary and a small lawful inheritance distribution from Dad’s reopened estate.
When I drove it to Gabe’s diner, he whistled.
“Fancy.”
“Windows work.”
“Luxury.”
I smiled.
Then my phone buzzed.
Enzo.
We had not spoken socially since I resigned.
Only two necessary legal messages routed through counsel.
Now:
YOU SAID ASK AFTER YOU WERE GONE. ARE YOU GONE ENOUGH YET?
I stared.
Gabe leaned.
“Is that him?”
“Mind business.”
“Mob boyfriend?”
“Not boyfriend.”
“Mob applicant?”
I kicked him under table.
He laughed.
I typed:
ONE DINNER. PUBLIC PLACE. I PAY MY SHARE.
Enzo replied:
YOU MAKE ROMANCE FEEL LIKE PROCUREMENT.
GOOD.
Then:
FRIDAY?
YES.
Our first date happened at a small Italian restaurant where no one stood when Enzo entered.
He arrived walking with a cane.
I froze.
He noticed.
“What?”
“You’re walking.”
“Observant.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I wanted to.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He paused.
“Because I decided medical progress does not entitle me to your attention.”
Damn.
Therapy apparently working.
“You’re still using chair?”
“For distance.”
“Fatigue.”
“Some days legs are terrible.”
“Good.”
He glared.
“Not the legs.”
“I know.”
We sat.
No security at table.
One officer? Enzo still might have licensed security due threats, across street. Fine.
Conversation was strange.
Normal.
He hated mushrooms.
I liked bad true-crime documentaries.
He read biographies.
I told him that explained ego.
He laughed.
Then I asked:
“What happens with charges?”
His smile faded.
“Likely plea.”
“Prison?”
“Possible.”
“How long?”
“Lawyers estimate one to three years depending cooperation.”
I felt something painful.
“Does that affect why you asked me here?”
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
“I did not want to leave without knowing whether something between us existed outside employment.”
There.
Honest.
“Are you asking me to wait?”
“No.”
“Would you want me to?”
He looked down.
“Yes.”
“Will you ask?”
“No.”
Good.
I breathed.
“I don’t know what we are.”
“Neither.”
“That bothers you.”
“Extremely.”
I smiled.
“Good.”
He groaned.
Then:
“I destroyed the private copy of your surveillance dossier.”
My heart tightened.
“How?”
“My attorney supervised.”
“Evidence?”
“Required materials transferred under seal to investigators.”
“Everything else shredded or deleted with certificate.”
He slid an envelope.
Independent digital-forensics attestation.
No hidden copies identified.
“Why bring this?”
“Because apology without returning control is incomplete.”
My eyes burned.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
Then:
“I owe you explanation about the handwritten note.”
“Hire her at all costs?”
“Yes.”
“I wrote it after my investigator told me Rostov had identified you.”
“I thought urgency justified it.”
“It didn’t.”
“No.”
“I also thought you were strong enough to survive my house.”
“That is not compliment.”
“I know now.”
Good.
He looked at me.
“You shouldn’t have had to be strong enough.”
There.
I almost cried.
Instead I picked up menu.
“What are you ordering?”
His mouth twitched.
“Are we done with emotional accountability?”
“For ten minutes.”
“Thank God.”
Dinner lasted two hours.
At end he asked:
“Can I walk you to car?”
“Yes.”
At car:
“Can I kiss you?”
My heart pounded.
I looked at Enzo.
Cane.
Scar.
Gray eyes.
No wheelchair tonight.
No mansion.
No salary.
No dossier.
No debt.
I wanted to.
That scared me.
“No.”
Pain crossed.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
I touched his sleeve.
“Ask again another day.”
His eyes lifted.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
I sighed.
“Now you’re doing it.”
May you like
“Yes.”
And for once, it made me laugh.
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