Chapter 7 - The Nurse Who Would Not Disappear
The story leaked to the press on a Thursday morning.
Not the whole story.
Enough.
COUNTERFEIT HEART DRUG INVESTIGATION EXPANDS.
MERIDIAN EXECUTIVE UNDER SCRUTINY.
MAFIA TIES ALLEGED.
Faith’s name appeared in the third article.
So did Francesco’s.
By noon, reporters were outside Mount Sinai.
Dr. Williams found Faith changing sheets in Leon Briggs’s room.
“You don’t have to work today.”
“I know.”
“You could go home.”
Faith tucked the corner.
“I don’t have one yet.”
Dr. Williams raised an eyebrow.
“The Moretti mansion does not count?”
Faith smiled despite herself.
“I’m moving out next week.”
“Does Mr. Moretti know?”
“He does now.”
Francesco had offered her a permanent suite.
Faith had thanked him and rented a small apartment near the hospital.
It was not glamorous.
It had a radiator that hissed like an angry cat and a kitchen barely wide enough for one person.
Faith loved it immediately.
The deposit came from her first paycheck.
Her name alone was on the lease.
That mattered.
Francesco did not argue.
He sent one housewarming gift.
A coffee maker.
Not diamonds.
Not rent money.
Coffee.
Faith laughed when she opened it.
Then found a note.
FOR THE WOMAN WHO INSISTS ON WORKING NIGHT SHIFTS.
No signature.
He did not need one.
The media attention got worse when Bellini’s attorneys implied Faith had been manipulated by the Moretti family.
One reporter shouted outside the hospital, “Miss Buchanan, are you romantically involved with an organized crime figure?”
Faith stopped.
Security urged her forward.
She turned back.
“I am a nurse and a witness in a federal investigation. Ask about the patients.”
The clip spread online.
For once, Faith did not hate being seen.
That evening, Agent Park called.
“We need you to identify a signature.”
Faith met her at a federal office downtown.
The document was a consulting contract supposedly signed by Faith.
The signature looked convincing.
Too convincing.
Faith stared.
“That’s my handwriting.”
Park frowned.
“You said you didn’t sign it.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how?”
Faith thought of nursing school forms, apartment applications, tax documents.
Then remembered Vincent photographing things.
“He practiced.”
Park showed her another page.
Dozens of handwritten versions of Faith Buchanan.
Like a child learning cursive.
Only the child was a thirty-five-year-old man building a crime around the woman he planned to marry.
Faith felt sick.
Park said, “There’s more.”
A separate file contained background checks on Faith.
Her mother’s death.
Her student loans.
Her scholarships.
Her credit history.
Vincent had researched her before their first date.
Faith stared at the screen.
“He picked me.”
Park said nothing.
“He didn’t fall in love with me and then become controlling.”
Her voice sounded far away.
“He chose someone with no family, no money, no safety net.”
The realization hurt in a new place.
Not because she still loved him.
Because it rewrote the beginning.
That night, Faith sat on the floor of her new apartment surrounded by unopened boxes.
Francesco arrived with takeout.
She let him in.
Then told him everything.
He listened.
When she finished, he said, “I’m sorry.”
Faith laughed bitterly.
“Everyone says that.”
“What should I say?”
“I don’t know.”
He sat on the floor beside her in a three-thousand-dollar suit.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then Francesco said, “He chose you because he thought you were alone.”
Faith looked at him.
“He was wrong.”
Something in her chest broke open.
She cried.
Not delicately.
Not beautifully.
She cried until her face hurt.
Francesco did not touch her until she leaned toward him.
Then he held her.
Later, when she could breathe again, her phone rang.
Agent Park.
“Faith, we arrested Vincent.”
Faith closed her eyes.
“What changed?”
“A witness came forward.”
“Rebecca?”
“No.”
Park paused.
“Luca Bellini’s accountant.”
Faith sat up.
“He says Bellini ordered the counterfeit shipments.”
Francesco’s expression sharpened.
Park continued.
“And he says Sofia Moretti was not the only intended target.”
Faith went cold.
“Who else?”
“Francesco.”
The week after the garage attack, Faith finally slept in her own apartment for one uninterrupted night.
She woke to sunlight across cardboard boxes and the strange peace of hearing no footsteps but her own.
She made coffee, burned toast, and called the landlord because the bathroom faucet leaked.
It felt absurdly luxurious.
At work, Leon Briggs was preparing for discharge.
He wore a Yankees cap and complained about the wheelchair policy.
“I can walk.”
“Hospital rule.”
“Rules are how tyranny starts.”
Faith laughed.
Simone hugged her before they left.
“My father says you’re stubborn.”
“He recognizes excellence.”
Then Simone became serious.
“If you hadn’t questioned that medication…”
Faith shook her head.
“Take him home.”
Simone understood the boundary and nodded.
After they left, Faith stood in the empty room and let herself feel proud.
Not rescued.
Useful.
That distinction mattered.
That evening Francesco came to her apartment for the first time.
He looked around the tiny kitchen.
“Your refrigerator is making a noise.”
“It has personality.”
“It has a mechanical problem.”
“You are not buying me a refrigerator.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You thought it loudly.”
He actually laughed.
They ate takeout on the floor because Faith had not bought a table yet.
No guards inside.
No servants.
No marble.
Just two people with plastic forks.
Francesco looked strangely out of place and strangely comfortable.
Faith realized she liked him better in rooms he did not own.
By then, Faith had started therapy through an employee assistance program.
She hated the first session.
The therapist asked what safety felt like, and Faith realized she had no answer that did not involve another person standing between her and danger.
So she made a list.
Her own apartment key.
Her hospital badge.
Money in an account Vincent had never touched.
Dr. Williams calling her by name because she respected her work.
The right to say no without explaining it.
Francesco read the list only because Faith chose to show him.
He touched the line about the apartment key.
“I understand this one.”
“Do you?”
May you like
“No,” he admitted. “But I’m trying.”
Faith appreciated the correction more than a perfect answer.
