Chapter 2 - Shadows of the Past
The metal band caught the harsh fluorescent light of the trauma suite, casting a cold, metallic gleam across the sterile white sheets. I stared at the ring, the engraving on the inside edge—Forever, C&D—blinking at me like an accusation. My knees felt hollow, the sterile hospital floor suddenly seeming miles away.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I reached down to scoop Logan into my arms. The boy whimpered, clinging to his stuffed bear, confused by the sudden tension in the room. “I buried him. I identified the body. The police department, the coroner, the paperwork—it was all real.”
Alessandro Romano let out a low, gravelly chuckle that turned into a sharp cough, sending a fresh spike of panic through the medical staff standing frozen near the door. The huge man with blood on his hands—whom I would later learn was Viktor, Alessandro’s most trusted enforcer—stepped forward, his massive frame shielding the bed from any outside view.
“Paperwork can be rewritten, Mrs. Winters,” Alessandro said, his voice gaining strength with every syllable, defying the three bullet wounds that had supposedly ended his life minutes ago. “And bodies... well, when an intelligence asset deep inside an international syndicate needs to disappear permanently, the state is often more than willing to help orchestrate a convincing funeral.”
“An asset?” I shook my head, tears hot and fast spilling over my lashes. “David was an accountant. He worked for a corporate tax firm downtown. He hated violence. He couldn’t even watch action movies without wincing.”
“Men who stare at ledgers all day are often the ones holding the keys to empires,” Alessandro replied, his dark, piercing eyes softening fractionally as they flickered down to Logan, who had buried his face in my neck. “Your husband wasn’t just balancing corporate spreadsheets, Catherine. He was tracking the illicit offshore accounts of the Syndicate of the Sun—the very men who put these bullets in my chest tonight.”
The medical monitor hummed a steady, rhythmic beat behind us, a stark contrast to the chaos unraveling in my mind. The doctors, finally snapping out of their shock, rushed forward with stethoscopes and IV bags, but Viktor blocked their path with a cold, unyielding stare.
“Not yet,” Viktor growled.
“Are you insane?” the chief surgeon shouted. “He just flatlined! His vitals are unstable!”
“He listens to me now,” Alessandro murmured, waving a pale, blood-streaked hand to dismiss the medical team. They hesitated, looking between the bleeding mafia boss and the wall of armed men blocking the exit, before retreating toward the corner of the room.
Alessandro turned his gaze back to me. “Your husband faked his death two years ago because the Syndicate found out he was cooperating with federal authorities—and with my organization. They rigged his car, but we switched it out at the last second. We gave him a new identity, a new life, to keep him safe. But in exchange, he had to leave everything behind. Including you. Including his newborn son.”
The room spun. The grief I had carried for twenty-four months—the dark, suffocating mourning that had kept me awake night after night—shattered into a million sharp, jagged pieces. He wasn't dead. He had chosen to leave. He had chosen not to look back.
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“If he’s alive,” I whispered, the rage finally overtaking the shock, “where is he?”
Before Alessandro could answer, the overhead lights flickered violently, plunging the trauma suite into a sudden, eerie gloom as emergency backup generators kicked in with a heavy, rhythmic thrum. From the hallway outside came the distinct, horrifying sound of gunfire.
