Chapter 3 - The Ghost Clinic
"She's crashing!" Aris shouted, slamming an oxygen mask over her face and ripping open a packet of surgical tools. "Tony, hold the flashlight! I need to clamp the bleeder right here on the floor!"
Vincent stood up, stepping back to give the doctor room. His hands were covered in Elena's blood. He stared down at his palms, the dark red fluid reflecting the dim light of the overhead chandelier. Marco descended the stairs, shaking his head.
"House is clear, Boss. Found the kid's room. Window is open, just like she said. Looks like they ransacked the home office upstairs. They weren't just here to hurt her. They were looking for something."
Vincent walked into the small home office. Files were scattered everywhere. A laptop lay broken on the floor, its hard drive brutally smashed with a hammer. Whoever had done this knew exactly what they wanted to destroy.
Vincent knelt and picked up a stray piece of paper that had escaped the destruction, wedged beneath a heavy oak desk. It was a letterhead from the Eastside Community Legal Clinic. On it, a list of names was written in a hurried, elegant cursive—Elena's handwriting. Most of the names were crossed out, but one at the bottom was circled twice: Marcus Vance.
Vincent’s jaw tightened. Marcus Vance was a corrupt real estate mogul who had been buying up tenement buildings in the Eastside, forcing poor families out through illegal evictions and arson. He was also a major financier for the Marcone family—the Torinos' bitter rivals.
"Boss," Tony called out from the living room. "Aris stabilized her. The bleeding is stopped for now, but she's unconscious. We need to move her to the safehouse in the hills."
"Do it," Vincent said, walking back into the living room. He looked at Elena, who was now hooked up to a portable IV drip, her pale face contrasting sharply with the bright blue of her dress. "Marco, stay here with Danny. Clean this place up. I don't want a single cop realizing what happened here tonight. Tony, we take Elena to the ridge villa. Then, I'm going back to Romano's to get the girl."
Two hours later, Vincent entered the private quarters above Romano's restaurant. Sophie was sitting on a plush velvet sofa, wearing one of Maria Benedetto’s oversized sweaters. A bowl of untouched chicken soup sat on the coffee table in front of her.
When the door opened, she jumped up, her eyes wide with terror that instantly turned into desperate hope when she saw Vincent.
"Is my mama alive?" she whispered.
Vincent walked over and knelt in front of her for the second time that night. He didn't lie to her. He didn't believe in lying to children; the world was too harsh for fairy tales. "She is alive, Sophie. She is hurt very badly, but I have a doctor taking care of her in a safe place. She is sleeping right now so her body can heal."
Sophie’s lower lip trembled, but she didn't cry. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her small arms around Vincent’s neck. Vincent stiffened. He hadn't been hugged by a child since he was a boy himself. Slowly, awkwardly, he wrapped his large, scarred arms around her, holding her tight.
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"Who are you?" Sophie whispered against his shoulder.
"I am Vincent," he said quietly. "And I promise you, nobody is ever going to hurt you or your mother again."
