Chapter 5 - What Money Couldn't Buy
Six hours.
That's how long the procedure took.
Adrian sat beside me the entire time.
Vincent paced.
At hour three, I finally said, “You're making me nervous.”
He stopped.
“I'm making you nervous?”
“Yes.”
“You threatened me yesterday.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
He sat.
Thirty seconds later, he stood again.
Adrian looked at me.
“He does this.”
“I can see that.”
Vincent glared at us.
“My wife hated hospitals.”
Adrian's expression softened.
Vincent stared toward the operating-room doors.
“She died in one.”
The room became quiet.
I'd known his wife was dead.
I hadn't known how.
Vincent continued.
“Cancer. By the time they found it, money couldn't fix anything.”
He looked at me.
“That's why I paid your mother's bill.”
I nodded.
“I understand.”
“No, you don't.”
His voice became quieter.
“I spent fourteen years thinking that if I'd noticed sooner, pushed harder, found another doctor, made another phone call...”
Adrian stood.
“Dad.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Your mother needs you whether she survives tonight or not, Emily. Don't spend tomorrow calculating what you should've done yesterday.”
That sentence hit harder than anything else he'd said.
I looked down at my hands.
“Thank you.”
Vincent nodded once.
The operating-room doors opened.
Dr. Patel walked toward us.
I stood so quickly my chair scraped backward.
“How is she?”
“The procedure went well.”
My knees almost gave out.
Adrian caught my elbow.
Dr. Patel smiled.
“She has a difficult recovery ahead, but tonight went as well as we could have hoped.”
I started crying.
Not elegantly.
Not quietly.
I covered my face.
Then someone hugged me.
Vincent.
The terrifying Vincent Moretti held me like a father comforting a daughter.
“She's alive,” he said.
I nodded against his coat.
“She's alive.”
When he released me, Vincent looked embarrassed.
“If you tell anyone I hugged you, I'll deny it.”
I laughed through my tears.
“Chicago's going to hear about it by breakfast.”
“Emily.”
“Maybe lunch.”
Adrian smiled.
Hours later, Mom opened her eyes.
I was beside her.
Adrian stood near the window.
She looked at him.
“Nice shoulders.”
I groaned.
“Mom.”
Her weak laugh was the best sound I'd heard in years.
---
Two weeks passed.
Patrick Doyle was formally charged in connection with multiple financial crimes and threats.
My mother began rehabilitation.
I returned to Murphy's.
And every morning at 7:15, Adrian Moretti appeared at the same stool.
Coffee.
Eggs.
Toast.
“Are you stalking me?” I asked on the tenth morning.
“Yes.”
I stopped pouring.
He smiled.
“Kidding.”
“You're terrible at flirting.”
“I've been told otherwise.”
“By women on your payroll?”
“That's insulting.”
“Accurate?”
He considered it.
“Possibly.”
I laughed.
Then he became serious.
“Dinner.”
“What?”
“Have dinner with me.”
“No bodyguards?”
“They'll be nearby.”
“No private jet?”
“I wasn't planning—”
“No restaurant you secretly own.”
“That eliminates half of downtown.”
“Adrian.”
He smiled.
“Fine.”
I leaned closer.
“One dinner.”
His eyes brightened.
“One?”
“Don't get greedy.”
He reached for his coffee.
“You told my father you'd end him.”
“He deserved it.”
“I think I fell for you somewhere around that sentence.”
My hand stopped.
He looked immediately uncomfortable.
“I probably shouldn't have said that.”
“No.”
“Forget it.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
I smiled.
“Say it again after dinner.”
His answering smile stayed with me all day.
But there was still one problem.
Vincent Moretti.
May you like
And Vincent had apparently decided my relationship with his son was now his personal business.
---
