Chapter 10 - SEVEN BULLETS, ONE TRUTH
The deputy commissioner’s name was Harold Crane.
On television, he looked respectable.
Silver hair.
Measured voice.
A reputation for anti-corruption reforms.
Three commendations.
One bestselling memoir about integrity.
According to my father’s missing recordings, he had also accepted Costa money for at least eighteen years.
Dominic wanted to expose him immediately.
Samuel wanted to disappear.
The federal prosecutors wanted evidence first.
I wanted to stop waking up inside conspiracies.
Nobody cared what I wanted.
At least, that was how it felt until Dominic asked.
“What do you want to do?”
We were alone in the hospital garden, my first time outside since the shooting.
It was January now.
Cold, bright, sharp.
I sat in a wheelchair because walking the full distance would have exhausted me.
I hated the chair less than I had expected.
Maybe accepting help felt different when I chose it.
“I want my mother safe.”
“She is.”
“I want Samuel safe.”
“Enzo moved him.”
“I want Costa arrested.”
“So do I.”
“I want Crane exposed legally.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“Legally.”
“Yes.”
“He may have people inside the department.”
“Then federal.”
“He may have federal contacts.”
“Then press.”
He looked at me.
“Daniel’s strategy.”
“Copies everywhere.”
A faint smile.
“You really are his daughter.”
“I’m also my mother’s.”
“That explains the arguments.”
I pointed at him.
“Careful.”
He laughed softly.
Then the seriousness returned.
“We need the other tapes.”
“They’re gone.”
“Maybe not.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Samuel said Daniel made three recordings. He stored copies in a box.”
“Yes.”
“Your father never trusted one copy.”
I saw it immediately.
“The church?”
“Already searched.”
“Lake Bell?”
“Maybe.”
Then I remembered the lockbox.
The ledger had been inside.
What if something was beneath it?
I called Enzo.
He drove to the evidence facility with a federal agent present and reopened the box under camera.
The felt lining lifted.
Beneath it was a microcassette.
My father had been impossible.
I loved him for it.
The recording was transferred digitally and sent to prosecutors.
Crane’s voice was on it.
Clear.
Young.
Discussing payments.
Mentioning Costa by name.
Promising a raid would be redirected.
Enough to begin an investigation.
Not enough to convict alone.
Then Matteo added his testimony.
He had personally delivered cash to Crane twice.
The case widened.
Within forty-eight hours, federal agents searched Crane’s home and office.
The city went into shock.
News helicopters circled police headquarters.
Victor Costa remained missing.
That made him more dangerous.
A trapped animal knows only exits.
On the fourth day, my doctors scheduled surgery to remove another bullet near my shoulder.
It should have been routine compared with everything else.
I was terrified.
There was no rational reason.
But fear is rarely rational after the body learns what dying feels like.
The night before surgery, Dominic sat beside my bed.
I had asked him to stay.
That mattered too.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“I know.”
“You can go home.”
“I know.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I know.”
I looked at him.
“Stop agreeing with me.”
“No.”
I smiled despite myself.
Then my eyes filled.
His expression changed instantly.
“What?”
“I’m scared.”
He moved closer.
Not touching.
Waiting.
I reached for his hand.
He took mine carefully.
“What if my heart stops again?”
“Then Patel restarts it.”
“What if he can’t?”
Dominic’s face tightened.
“He can.”
“That is not how medicine works.”
“No.”
“Then say something true.”
He was silent for a long moment.
Then he said, “If you die, I will survive it badly.”
I stared at him.
“That is terrible comfort.”
“It is true.”
A tear slid into my hair.
He continued.
“I will take care of Ellen. I will make sure Costa never touches anyone you love. I will not turn your death into permission to become worse than I am.”
My throat closed.
“And if I live?”
His eyes held mine.
“You choose what happens next.”
The surgery lasted two hours.
When I woke, Dominic was there.
So was my mother.
So was Isabella.
The bullet sat in a specimen container on the counter.
I stared at it.
“One more?” I whispered.
Dr. Patel nodded.
“Three remain. This one was the dangerous one.”
I looked at Dominic.
“Can I keep it?”
He looked horrified.
“No.”
“It was inside me.”
“That is not an argument.”
“I paid for it.”
My mother laughed so hard she had to sit down.
Dr. Patel, traitor that he was, gave me the deformed metal fragment in a sealed medical container after signing three forms.
I placed it beside the cut wedding ring.
Two objects I never asked for.
Both changed my life.
That evening, a nurse brought flowers.
No card.
Black calla lilies.
Dominic’s face changed the moment he saw them.
He grabbed the bouquet before it reached my table.
Inside the wrapping was a photograph.
My mother leaving cardiac rehab that morning.
On the back, one sentence.
ONE LAST TRADE.
Below it was a time and location.
Saint Agnes.
Again.
Victor Costa was going back to the beginning.
And this time, the message ended with three words meant only for me.
COME WITHOUT ROSSI.
I turned the photograph over again, studying the handwriting. Costa had chosen Saint Agnes because he wanted fear to become circular. My father had hidden his truth there. Father Michael had been taken from there. Now Costa wanted me to return to the same place alone, as if he could force the story back into the shape he preferred.
Dominic reached for the photo but stopped before touching it. “May I?”
I handed it to him.
The question should not have mattered. It did.
“He knows the church has emotional weight,” I said.
“He also knows we searched it already.”
“So he assumes we will think there is another secret.”
“Or he wants us looking for one while he controls the room.”
I watched him turn the picture toward the light. “You said he is predictable.”
“He is when he is winning.”
“And now?”
“Now he is desperate.”
Desperate men were not random, I realized. They were simply willing to spend more lives to preserve the same old goal.
I looked toward the bullet in its medical container on the shelf. One piece of metal, one body, one year of consequences.
“No more letting him write the terms,” I said.
Dominic met my eyes.
For once, he did not answer with an order.
May you like
“Tell me what you need.”
That was how the Saint Agnes plan actually began.
