Chapter 3 - THE MIDNIGHT CONFESSION
The underground parking garage of Saint Jude’s hospital smelled of exhaust, damp concrete, and old oil. Fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over rows of parked sedans and SUVs.
Iris walked with her hands jammed deep into the pockets of her wool coat, her boots clicking sharply against the concrete floor. She didn't consciously decide to come down here; her feet simply moved toward the answer she needed before she could cut into Gia’s chest. A surgeon could repair a defective valve, but if the child was returning to a battlefield, the operation was nothing more than a temporary postponement of a tragedy.
She found the car easily. A matte-black European sedan parked in the far corner, away from the security cameras' primary arc.
As she approached, the interior light flickered on.
Salvatore Mancini pushed the door open and stepped out. Up close, without the shield of his penthouse or the barrier of his armed guards, he looked older. The sharp lines of his face were softened by exhaustion. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, exposing the hollow of his throat.
He didn't try to look imposing. He simply leaned against the side of his car and waited for her to speak.
“You’re trespassing on hospital property by lingering down here,” Iris said, stopping three feet away.
“Technically, I’m a concerned parent waiting for visiting hours to begin tomorrow,” Salvatore replied, his voice low and raspy. “Though I suspect you didn't come down here to quote hospital bylaws to me, Doctor.”
“Marco told me the scars were from before she came to New Orleans.”
Salvatore’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped near the corner of his mouth. He looked past her, staring into the empty stretches of the concrete garage as if unearthing ghosts he had tried to bury in concrete.
“Her mother,” Salvatore said, the words coming out like stones dropped down a dry well. “Elena. She was... connected to the old families in Palermo. Not business. Blood. When I climbed out of the docks and started building something legitimate—something they couldn't control—they tried to break me through the only thing I loved.”
Iris stayed silent, letting him speak. The air between them felt thick, charged with a history of violence she only knew from headlines and police briefs.
“Gia was two years old,” Salvatore continued, his hands gripping the edge of the car door until his knuckles turned white. “I was away for forty-eight hours securing a shipping contract in Marseille. A warning was sent. A message carved into flesh to remind me who owned my life.” He finally looked at Iris, his dark eyes burning with a self-directed fury that terrified her more than any threat could have. “I killed the men who ordered it. Every single one of them. I dismantled their entire bloodline until there was no one left to whisper their names. But I couldn't undo what they did to my little girl.”
“And you brought her here,” Iris said softly, the harshness draining from her voice.
“I brought her to the other side of the world to give her a normal life,” Salvatore whispered. “A garden. School. Friends who don't carry guns in their backpacks. But I couldn't fix her heart. The defect... it was a ticking clock waiting for her to grow.” He took a step toward her, closing the distance. “You told me you don't sell your hands. Good. Because I’m not asking you to sell them. I’m asking you to use them to save the only reason I still draw breath.”
Iris looked up into his face. There was no arrogance left in him. Only a desperate, agonizing vulnerability.
“I’m going to operate on her tomorrow morning, Mr. Mancini,” Iris said, her voice steady and clear. “And I’m going to do everything in my power to save her life. But when she wakes up... you tell her the truth about those scars when she’s old enough to understand. Because if you don't, I will.”
May you like
Salvatore nodded slowly, his eyes shining in the dim fluorescent light.
“Deal.”
