Chapter 11 - THE TRAP AT SAINT AGNES
I told Dominic immediately.
That was growth.
The old version of me—the woman who believed asking for help meant becoming a burden—might have hidden the photograph and tried to handle it alone.
The newer version had been shot enough times to appreciate teamwork.
Dominic read the message.
“No.”
Apparently his growth was slower.
“I haven’t proposed anything yet.”
“You are thinking it.”
“You cannot hear thoughts.”
“I know your face.”
“You stalked it for seven years.”
He closed his eyes.
“Fair.”
Costa wanted me at Saint Agnes at midnight.
No Dominic.
No police.
No ledger.
Just me.
That was different.
“He doesn’t want evidence,” I said.
Dominic nodded.
“He wants revenge.”
“For what?”
“You survived.”
“That seems petty.”
“He is petty.”
“What else?”
Dominic looked toward the photograph of my mother.
“You turned Daniel’s ledger into a public weapon. Costa spent fifteen years believing he buried that threat.”
“And now his network is collapsing.”
“Crane is under federal investigation. Two contractors flipped. Three city officials resigned. Matteo is cooperating.”
“So he wants me dead before they arrest him.”
“Yes.”
“Then we give him what he expects.”
“No.”
“Dominic.”
“No.”
This time I did not argue immediately.
I looked at him.
“Why?”
His answer came faster than expected.
“Because I love you.”
Silence.
Complete.
Even the hospital machines seemed quieter.
Dominic looked as surprised as I felt.
Maybe he had not planned to say it.
I swallowed.
“That is inconvenient.”
“Yes.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
“That is a terrible answer.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
Then I became serious.
“Love is not permission to decide for me.”
His face changed.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He nodded slowly.
“I’m trying.”
“Then try now.”
He sat opposite me.
“Tell me the plan.”
That was all I had wanted.
Not agreement.
A seat at the table.
We built the plan together.
Federal agents would control the perimeter under a separate command from Dominic’s people.
No one would enter the church until Costa revealed himself.
I would wear a wire and soft body armor modified around my wounds.
Dominic would remain nearby but out of Costa’s line of sight.
My mother was moved to a federal protective unit without being told the full details because she would have personally strangled me with her oxygen tubing.
Isabella knew.
She kissed my forehead and said, “If you die, I will kill you.”
Apparently maternal logic was universal.
At eleven fifty-seven, I walked into Saint Agnes.
The abandoned church smelled of dust, wet stone, and old wood.
Moonlight fell through broken stained glass.
Candles burned near the altar.
That was not comforting.
Victor Costa stepped out from behind a column.
He looked worse than at the ferry terminal.
Unshaven.
Coat torn.
One side of his face bruised.
A man used to control had been living without it.
“You came.”
“You threatened my mother.”
He smiled.
“Reliable motivation.”
“Where is she?”
“Safe. For now.”
Lie.
We knew exactly where she was.
I let him believe it.
“What do you want?”
He walked closer.
“To understand Daniel.”
My heart beat harder.
“You murdered him.”
“Yes.”
The wire captured it.
Good.
“Why?”
“I told you. He had leverage.”
“No. You had officials, police, money. You could have discredited him.”
Victor’s eyes sharpened.
“He laughed at me.”
I almost did too.
That was it.
Fifteen years of murder and corruption, and somewhere inside it was a fragile man who could not bear ridicule.
“What did he say?”
Victor looked toward the altar.
“He said men like me always mistake being feared for being respected.”
My throat tightened.
That sounded exactly like something my father would say when he should not.
Victor looked back at me.
“He was right, apparently.”
“Is that why you want me here?”
“No.”
He drew a gun.
Every muscle in my body locked.
“The ledger is everywhere now. Crane will talk. Matteo will talk. My accounts are frozen.”
He smiled.
“But Rossi still has everything.”
“This is about Dominic?”
“This has always been about the Rossis.”
He stepped closer.
“You saved Isabella. Dominic made you untouchable. You turned Daniel’s dead hand against me.”
“You did that yourself.”
His face twisted.
“Do not sound like him.”
Behind the walls, somewhere, people waited.
We needed the gun lowered.
I kept talking.
“You know what Dominic did that you never could?”
Victor laughed.
“What?”
“He stopped.”
His smile faded.
“At the ferry terminal, he could have chased you. He stayed with me.”
“So?”
“He chose a person over winning.”
Victor raised the weapon slightly.
“That makes him weak.”
“No. It makes him free.”
Something moved behind the altar.
Victor heard it.
He spun.
The gun fired.
I dropped.
Not because I was hit.
Because Dominic had taught me one useful thing: when guns appear, the floor is your friend.
Federal agents stormed both side doors.
Victor fired twice.
Glass shattered.
Dominic appeared from behind a stone screen despite agreeing not to enter.
Of course.
Costa aimed at him.
I saw it before Dominic did.
“No!”
I grabbed the nearest thing—an old brass candle stand—and hurled it.
My injured arm screamed.
The stand struck Victor’s wrist.
The gun went off into the ceiling.
Dominic tackled him.
Agents swarmed.
For several seconds, all I saw were bodies and black jackets.
Then Victor Costa was face-down on the church floor, hands cuffed behind him.
Alive.
Dominic stood over him breathing hard.
He could have struck him.
He did not.
He looked at me instead.
I was sitting on the floor clutching my shoulder.
He crossed the space in three steps.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve become familiar with the sensation.”
He closed his eyes.
Then he laughed once, shakily.
I had never seen relief look painful before.
Victor was pulled upright.
As agents led him past me, he stopped.
“You think this ends anything?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Naive.”
“No.”
I stood slowly with Dominic’s help.
“It ends you deciding what my life is about.”
Victor said nothing.
They took him outside.
The church became quiet again.
Dominic looked at the hidden microphone taped beneath my collar.
“You got the confession.”
“So did federal agents.”
“Yes.”
“And no one died.”
“Yes.”
“Look at us being modern.”
He shook his head.
Then his eyes dropped to my mouth.
Mine dropped to his.
That was new.
Dangerous in a different way.
“Dominic.”
“Yes?”
“You said something earlier.”
His expression became guarded.
“I say many regrettable things.”
“About loving me.”
He went very still.
I stepped closer.
“I’m not ready to say it back.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not asking you to take it back.”
His eyes changed.
“Good.”
Then, because my life had become absurd and because I wanted one decision that belonged entirely to me, I kissed him.
Not as his fake wife.
Not as Daniel Bennett’s daughter.
Not as Isabella’s savior.
As Mara.
May you like
Awake.
Choosing.
