I Saved a Dying Mafia Boss in My Clinic—Three Days Later, His Enemies Came for Me

Gabriel came to the clinic after all.

He arrived alone.

That was either respect for my request or a reckless attempt to prove he could follow instructions. With him, it was difficult to tell.

I had locked the front door and pulled the blinds. The broken glass had been covered with plywood. The clinic looked wounded.

I felt responsible.

Gabriel stood just inside the doorway, taking in the damage.

"I can replace all of this."

"Stop trying to solve guilt with money."

"I was going to say glass."

"Same principle."

I handed him the photograph.

He stared at it for a long time.

The younger version of him looked harder somehow. Less controlled. My father stood beside him in a rumpled white coat, pointing at something outside the frame.

"Where was this?" I asked.

"St. Vincent's loading dock."

"You remember now?"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

Gabriel sat in one of our plastic waiting-room chairs.

"My father sent me to negotiate a problem with medical shipments. He said a surgeon was interfering with contracts."

"My father."

"Yes. I expected an administrator. Instead Jonathan walked into the loading dock carrying three boxes of mislabeled blood bags."

Despite everything, I could picture it.

My father had never respected hierarchy enough to be frightened by expensive suits.

"What did he say?"

Gabriel looked down at the photo.

"He told me I was either stupid or lying."

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

"That sounds like him."

"I told him people had been killed for speaking to me that way."

"And?"

"He said, 'Then they've been rewarding your ego.'"

I covered my mouth.

For the first time since this nightmare began, laughter hurt in a good way.

Gabriel almost smiled.

Then the expression disappeared.

"He showed me invoices. Blood products purchased twice. Surgical supplies redirected from charity wards to private clinics that did not exist. He said the fraud was not the worst part."

"The patient list."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you stop it then?"

He looked directly at me.

"I tried."

"Tried how?"

"I confronted my father. He told me the lists protected the organization by identifying undercover officers, rival soldiers, informants, and people who might be used against us. I told him hospitals and clinics were off limits."

"And he listened?"

"For six weeks. Then the program changed names."

I sat across from him.

"My father knew that?"

"He contacted me twice after that. He wanted evidence. I gave him shipping manifests anonymously."

My heart stumbled.

"You helped him."

"Not enough."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I did not remember his name when you first said it. I knew him as Dr. Hayes. And because once I did remember, I needed to be sure before I handed you another reason to hate me."

"You don't get to edit my reasons."

"I know."

I looked at the photograph again.

My father's note on the back felt different now.

HE MAY BE THE WAY OUT.

"He thought you could dismantle it."

"Apparently."

"Did you?"

"Not then."

The answer was quiet.

"My father died. Mine had a stroke four months later. I inherited everything before I understood how much poison was inside it. Victor told me North Vale had been closed. Carlo disappeared. I believed the system was gone."

"And you never checked?"

"I checked the accounts I knew existed."

"That isn't the same thing."

"No."

Again, he refused to defend himself.

I hated how much that mattered.

A knock sounded at the rear door.

I stiffened.

Gabriel stood instantly.

"Who is it?"

"Eli," came the answer. "And a patient."

I opened the door.

Eli entered with a woman holding a little girl perhaps eight years old. The girl's breathing was rapid and shallow. Her mother looked terrified.

"Asthma again," Eli said. "They couldn't afford the refill."

Everything else disappeared.

I became a clinician.

I sat the girl on an exam table, checked oxygen saturation, started a nebulizer, and listened to her lungs.

Gabriel stayed in the doorway.

He watched silently as the girl clutched her mother's hand.

"Her inhaler ran out two weeks ago," I said after the child's breathing eased. "The pharmacy says the prescription is not covered anymore."

The mother looked embarrassed.

"They wanted one hundred eighty dollars."

Gabriel's jaw tightened.

"For albuterol?"

I looked at him.

"You know drug prices?"

"I know extortion when I hear it."

The mother glanced between us, unsure who he was.

I wrote down the name of a discount pharmacy.

"We'll cover this month's refill from the clinic fund."

"I can pay," Gabriel said.

I turned.

"No."

He frowned.

"Why?"

"Because she doesn't need a billionaire benefactor appearing every time her daughter needs medicine. She needs a system that doesn't make breathing depend on cash."

The mother left with medication and instructions.

Gabriel remained quiet afterward.

Finally he said, "You think I'm trying to buy absolution."

"Sometimes."

"What if I am trying to learn?"

I did not answer.

Mateo called an hour later.

Carlo Morelli had been found.

Not merely alive.

Conscious.

And asking for me.

"How does he know my name?" I asked.

"He saw your father regularly before the crash," Mateo said. "The facility psychiatrist says Carlo has been heavily medicated for years, officially for paranoia. He claims Victor put him there."

Gabriel's face hardened.

"Can we get in?"

"Not openly. But I know someone on staff."

We drove to the rehab facility after dark.

I hated the place immediately.

Too clean. Too quiet. Too many locked doors disguised as tasteful architecture.

Carlo Morelli looked nothing like Victor.

He was thin, gray-haired, and visibly weak on one side from an old stroke. But his eyes were alert when we entered.

He looked at Gabriel first.

"Salvatore's son."

Then he saw me.

His face broke.

"Jonathan's girl."

I sat beside the bed.

"You knew my father?"

Carlo began to cry.

Not dramatically. Tears simply slipped down his face.

"I warned him too late."

My chest tightened.

"Who killed him?"

Carlo looked toward the locked door.

"Victor."

Gabriel went still.

"Your brother?"

Carlo nodded.

"Victor arranged the chase. Salvatore wanted Jonathan frightened. Victor wanted him gone."

My hands clenched.

"Why?"

"Because Jonathan found the second business."

"What second business?"

Carlo swallowed.

"Not money laundering. Not patient tracking. People."

The room seemed to tilt.

Gabriel's voice dropped.

"Trafficking?"

Carlo nodded again.

"Workers brought through shipping contracts. Passports held. Injuries treated off-book. Clinics identified the ones who might talk. Jonathan found records."

I felt sick.

Gabriel looked as if someone had struck him.

"My father knew?"

"He knew labor was being moved. He claimed he did not know the conditions. Maybe that was true. Maybe he preferred not to ask."

Carlo reached weakly for my hand.

"Your father copied everything. Victor knew. That is why he died."

"Where are the records?"

Carlo's eyes moved to Gabriel.

"Under Pier Nine."

Gabriel frowned.

"There is nothing under Pier Nine."

Carlo gave a bitter smile.