Chapter 2 - THE BILL HE PAID WITHOUT ASKING
When I opened my eyes the next morning, I was no longer in Victor Russo’s bed.
For one confused second, I thought everything had been a fever dream.
The gun.
The hospital bill.
Victor’s hand against my forehead.
His arms lifting me from the mattress.
Then I noticed the room.
Soft gray walls.
A fireplace.
Heavy curtains.
An IV running into my arm.
And a woman in a white coat sitting beside the window reading something on a tablet.
I tried to sit up.
Pain exploded behind my eyes.
“Don’t.”
The doctor crossed the room.
“You have influenza, dehydration, and the beginning of pneumonia.”
I stared at her.
“Where am I?”
“Guest wing.”
Victor’s estate.
Of course.
My heart began pounding.
“Tommy.”
“Your brother is alive.”
“Hospital?”
“Yes.”
“I need my phone.”
The doctor handed it over.
Twenty-three missed calls.
Most from the hospital.
Three from Tommy.
One from Mrs. Gable.
And one number I did not recognize.
Before I could call anyone, the bedroom door opened.
Victor Russo walked in.
No gun.
No jacket.
Black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He still looked terrifying.
Maybe more terrifying because I now knew what it felt like to have him carry me.
The doctor stood.
“Her fever is down.”
“Good.”
“She needs another twenty-four hours of rest.”
Victor looked at me.
“She gets it.”
I immediately said:
“No.”
His expression did not change.
The doctor looked between us.
“I’ll give you both a moment.”
Coward.
She left.
Victor stood near the foot of the bed.
I held the phone against my chest.
“I need to go to Tommy.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to—”
“He was transferred at six this morning.”
My breathing stopped.
“What?”
“Northwestern Memorial.”
I stared.
Tommy had been receiving treatment at a smaller hospital because it was the only place willing to keep working with us after our insurance complications.
“Transferred why?”
“Because their transplant program is better.”
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
“We can’t afford Northwestern.”
“You can now.”
Cold moved through me despite the fever.
“What did you do?”
Victor remained still.
“I paid the balance.”
I heard the words.
I did not understand them.
“The fifty-two thousand?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
My throat tightened.
“No.”
His eyebrow moved.
“No?”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I’m aware.”
“You can take it back.”
“That would require asking a hospital to return payment while your fifteen-year-old brother’s kidneys are failing.”
“I’ll repay you.”
“No.”
“Mr. Russo—”
“Victor.”
I stared.
“No.”
Something almost like amusement touched his face.
“You’re refusing my name?”
“I’m refusing the idea that because you paid one bill, you get to walk in here and redesign our lives.”
The amusement disappeared.
Good.
He looked at me for several seconds.
Then:
“My decision does not purchase anything from you.”
“That’s easy for a rich man to say.”
His jaw tightened.
I continued.
“Men with money always say there are no strings.”
“Then six months later, the strings appear.”
“Favor.”
“Loyalty.”
“Silence.”
Victor became completely still.
“I am not asking for any of those.”
“Then why?”
He looked away.
For the first time, the great Victor Russo seemed uncertain.
“Because a fifteen-year-old boy should not die because his sister cannot produce fifty-two thousand dollars.”
My throat closed.
I hated him for saying it that simply.
Because I had spent months turning the same fact into numbers.
Bills.
Copays.
Missed shifts.
Medication schedules.
Gas money.
Insurance appeals.
Victor reduced it back to what it was.
My brother might die.
I looked down.
“You don’t know him.”
“No.”
“You don’t know me.”
“No.”
“Then why do you care?”
Silence.
Then Victor said:
“I don’t know yet.”
That answer frightened me more than a speech.
My phone rang.
Tommy.
I answered instantly.
“Hey.”
His voice sounded weak but excited.
“Emma?”
There it was.
My name.
Emma Bennett.
Victor’s eyes changed slightly.
“I’m here.”
“Where are you?”
“Work.”
Victor looked around the bedroom.
I corrected myself.
“Sort of.”
Tommy laughed.
Then coughed.
“They moved me.”
“I know.”
“This room has a television the size of our apartment.”
“Tommy.”
“And some doctor with hair like Einstein said they’re doing a full transplant workup.”
My eyes filled.
“Good.”
“Did you win the lottery?”
“No.”
I looked at Victor.
“Something happened.”
Tommy’s voice lowered.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
I hesitated.
“Mostly.”
Victor noticed.
Tommy said:
“You sound terrible.”
“Flu.”
“You’re sick?”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that when you are definitely not fine.”
Victor almost smiled.
Traitor.
Then Tommy asked:
“Who paid?”
Silence.
I did not lie.
“My employer.”
Tommy stopped.
“The scary guy?”
Victor’s eyebrow rose.
I covered the phone.
“Everyone knows.”
Then back:
“Yes.”
“What does he want?”
Exactly.
Fifteen years old and already learned the same lesson I had.
“I don’t know.”
Victor’s face hardened.
Tommy said:
“Don’t sell a kidney for mine.”
I laughed despite myself.
“I won’t.”
“Okay.”
Then:
“Can you come later?”
“Yes.”
Victor said:
“No.”
I glared.
Tommy heard.
“Is that him?”
“No.”
“Yes,” Victor said.
I wanted to kill him.
Tommy laughed.
“Mr. Mafia?”
Victor’s expression went blank.
I nearly dropped the phone.
“Tommy.”
“What?”
“I’m sick, not dead.”
Victor held out his hand.
I stared.
He wanted the phone.
“No.”
He waited.
Then said:
“Speaker.”
Absolutely not.
Tommy called:
“Put me on speaker.”
Betrayal everywhere.
I did.
Victor spoke.
“Tommy.”
“Mr. Russo.”
“You should probably call me Victor.”
“My sister won’t.”
Victor looked at me.
“Apparently.”
Tommy laughed.
Then became serious.
“Thank you.”
Victor’s face changed.
“For what?”
“The hospital.”
“You don’t owe me thanks.”
“People who pay fifty-two thousand dollars usually expect at least a thank-you.”
Smart kid.
Victor said:
“Then you’re welcome.”
Tommy continued:
“But if you hurt Emma, I’m going to be really mad.”
Victor looked at me.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good.”
Call ended.
I stared at the screen.
Then Victor asked:
“Bennett.”
“What?”
“Your last name.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me differently.
“Your father’s name?”
My pulse changed.
“Why?”
“Answer.”
The command returned.
I disliked how quickly it still worked.
“Michael Bennett.”
Victor’s face went completely still.
“What?”
“My father.”
Victor walked toward the window.
“How old were you when he died?”
“Fifteen.”
“How?”
“Hit-and-run.”
“Where?”
“Cicero.”
He turned.
“What did he do for work?”
I frowned.
“Accounting.”
“For who?”
“Different companies.”
“He moved around.”
Victor’s expression had become something I could not read.
“Did he ever work for Russo Consolidated Freight?”
My body went cold.
That name.
I had seen it once.
On an old pay stub in my mother’s papers.
“I don’t know.”
Victor crossed the room.
“Emma.”
“Yes.”
“Did your father have a scar under his left eye?”
My breathing stopped.
A tiny white line.
Almost invisible.
From a childhood bicycle accident.
“Yes.”
Victor closed his eyes.
Then said:
“Your father worked for my family.”
The fever suddenly felt less important.
“What?”
“He was a senior accounting controller for my father.”
“No.”
“He used a different company name publicly.”
“Bennett Logistics Auditing.”
“That was a Russo subsidiary.”
I stared.
“My father never told me.”
Victor looked grim.
“There’s something else.”
I did not want more.
Of course there was more.
“What?”
“Nine years ago, Michael Bennett was accused of stealing eight-point-four million dollars from my father.”
I almost laughed.
The sound came out wrong.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because when he died, we had eighty-seven dollars in checking.”
Victor said nothing.
“We lost our apartment.”
“My mother sold her wedding ring.”
“I started working nights at sixteen.”
“Tommy wore the same winter coat for three years.”
My voice broke.
“If my father stole eight million dollars, he was terrible at being rich.”
Victor’s face tightened.
“The money was never recovered.”
“Because he didn’t steal it.”
“Maybe.”
I glared.
“He didn’t.”
Victor did not argue.
That surprised me.
Instead:
“My father believed he did.”
“Did you?”
“I was twenty-five.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
The word hurt.
Not because Victor knew my father well.
Because another powerful man had apparently placed the word thief beside Michael Bennett’s name and moved on.
“What happened after the accusation?”
Victor became quiet.
“He disappeared.”
“No.”
“He died.”
“Three days after.”
Victor looked at me.
I stopped breathing.
“My father was hit by a car three days after someone accused him of stealing from your family?”
“Yes.”
“You knew?”
“Not about the death.”
“How could you not?”
“Because the file said he fled Illinois.”
I felt sick.
“Who made the file?”
Victor did not answer immediately.
Then:
“My uncle.”
“Carlo Russo.”
I knew the name.
Everyone in the estate did.
Victor’s father’s younger brother.
Family adviser.
The man staff treated almost as carefully as Victor.
I whispered:
“Was he here last week?”
“Yes.”
I remembered.
Older man.
Silver hair.
Kissed Mrs. Gable’s cheek.
Looked at me twice.
Once long enough to make me uncomfortable.
Victor saw realization.
“What?”
“He knew my name.”
“Who?”
“Your uncle.”
My heart hammered.
“He asked Mrs. Gable if I was ‘the Bennett girl.’”
Victor’s entire expression changed.
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
“Exact words?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell him who your father was?”
“No.”
“Did Mrs. Gable?”
“I don’t know.”
Victor reached for his phone.
I said:
“Wait.”
He stopped.
Another surprise.
“What?”
“If my father was accused by your family, and Carlo knew who I was…”
I swallowed.
“Why was I hired here?”
Victor stared.
I watched the question become dangerous inside him.
Then he called Mrs. Gable.
Not Carlo.
Good.
“Come to the guest wing.”
Five minutes later, the head housekeeper stood in the doorway.
Victor asked:
“Who referred Emma Bennett?”
Mrs. Gable frowned.
“The agency.”
“Who asked the agency to send her?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Check.”
She pulled out her phone.
Scrolled.
Then went pale.
“Mr. Russo.”
“What?”
“This request did not come from me.”
“Who?”
Mrs. Gable looked at Emma.
Then Victor.
“Mr. Carlo’s office.”
Silence.
My fever returned as a wave.
Victor’s jaw clenched.
He looked at me.
The decision he had made that morning was no longer simply to pay Tommy’s hospital bill.
He had brought my brother into his protection.
Reopened my father’s death.
And discovered that I had not accidentally taken a housekeeping job in the home of Chicago’s most feared man.
May you like
Someone had put me there.
---
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