Chapter 2 - A Debt I Never Asked For
My mother looked smaller every time I saw her.
She lay beneath a thin hospital blanket with oxygen tubing beneath her nose.
“Emily?”
I crossed the room.
“I'm here.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“You're freezing.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Her tired eyes moved toward Adrian standing respectfully near the door.
“And who's that?”
“Nobody.”
Adrian raised an eyebrow.
My mother smiled faintly.
“Nobody has nice shoulders.”
“Mom.”
“What? I'm sick, not blind.”
Adrian actually laughed.
“Adrian Moretti, ma'am.”
My mother's smile vanished.
She knew the name.
Everyone in Chicago knew the name.
“Moretti?”
I squeezed her hand.
“Long story.”
Dr. Patel entered before I could explain.
His expression told me enough.
“We need to discuss another procedure.”
“How much?”
“Emily—”
“How much?”
He hesitated.
“Your mother's insurance has denied part of the respiratory intervention.”
Of course it had.
“What are our options?”
He explained them.
I heard maybe half.
Then came the number.
Twenty-eight thousand dollars.
I stared at him.
“I don't have twenty-eight thousand dollars.”
“We can discuss financing.”
“I already owe this hospital thirty-seven thousand.”
Dr. Patel lowered his voice.
“I understand.”
No.
He didn't.
Nobody understood what numbers sounded like when they determined whether your mother could breathe.
After he left, I walked into the hallway.
Adrian followed.
“Emily.”
“Don't.”
“I can help.”
“No.”
“Twenty-eight thousand dollars isn't—”
I spun around.
“Finish that sentence carefully.”
He stopped.
“To my family, it's manageable.”
“To mine, it's everything.”
“That's exactly why I'm offering.”
“And then what?”
“Nothing.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Men named Moretti don't give away money for nothing.”
His expression cooled.
“You don't know me.”
“I met your father thirty minutes ago.”
“My father and I aren't the same man.”
“Prove it by accepting no.”
That hit him.
He nodded once.
“All right.”
He walked away.
I immediately felt guilty.
But guilt was cheaper than owing the Moretti family.
I spent the night beside Mom.
At six the next morning, a billing administrator entered.
“Ms. Carter?”
“Yes?”
“Your mother's procedure has been authorized.”
I sat up.
“What?”
“The outstanding amount was covered.”
Cold moved through me.
“By whom?”
“I don't have that information.”
I did.
I stormed into the hallway and called Adrian.
He answered on the second ring.
“You paid it.”
“No.”
“Don't lie to me.”
“I didn't.”
“Then your father did.”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
“Where is he?”
“Emily—”
“Where?”
---
Vincent Moretti was eating breakfast in the private dining room of a downtown hotel when I walked in twenty minutes later.
His security men blocked me.
Vincent looked up from his newspaper.
“Let her through.”
I marched toward his table.
“You paid my mother's hospital bill.”
“Yes.”
“I told your son I didn't want your money.”
“My son told me.”
“Then why did you do it?”
Vincent folded his newspaper.
“Because I nearly put a ceramic cup through your skull.”
“That doesn't cost twenty-eight thousand dollars.”
“Apparently my guilt is expensive.”
“I don't want it.”
“It isn't yours.”
“What?”
“The money went to the hospital. Your mother needs treatment. You don't.”
I stared at him.
“You can't buy forgiveness.”
“I wasn't trying to.”
“Then what were you trying to buy?”
Vincent's face became unexpectedly serious.
“Sleep.”
That silenced me.
He leaned back.
“My wife died fourteen years ago because I believed money and influence could solve every problem. They couldn't. Your mother still has a chance.”
“You don't know her.”
“No.”
“Then why care?”
His gaze sharpened.
“Because yesterday you looked at me the way my wife used to.”
I didn't know what to say.
Vincent continued.
“Like I was behaving like an idiot.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
“I'll repay you.”
“No.”
“I will.”
“Fine.”
“How?”
Vincent reached for his coffee.
“Make sure this one isn't burned.”
I stared at him.
Then he smiled.
It was the first time I understood why people followed Vincent Moretti.
Not because he was loud.
Because when he chose to be charming, it was almost impossible not to listen.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed Adrian and me leaving the diner.
Beneath it were seven words.
STAY AWAY FROM THE MORETTIS OR YOUR MOTHER DIES.
Vincent saw my face change.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He held out his hand.
“Emily.”
I showed him the phone.
The warmth disappeared from his face instantly.
Vincent stood.
“Lock the doors.”
His men moved immediately.
I backed away.
“What are you doing?”
Vincent stared at the photograph.
May you like
“Finding out who just threatened your mother.”
---
