Chapter 2 - THE BOY CLARA TRIED TO SAVE
I reached Hawthorne Grove forty minutes later.
Dante was already in the parking lot.
I slammed my car door.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting outside.”
“You followed me.”
“I had security follow you.”
“That is somehow worse.”
“Probably.”
Rain darkened the shoulders of his black coat.
For a man who terrified half of Chicago, he looked strangely uncertain.
“You said I should go alone.”
“You should.”
“Then why are you here?”
“In case you need me.”
I hated how reasonable that sounded.
“You wait here.”
“I intended to.”
“No dramatic entrances.”
“Emily.”
“No threats.”
“Emily.”
“No making doctors disappear.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I have never made a doctor disappear.”
“Good. Keep your record clean.”
I turned toward the entrance.
Behind me, Dante said:
“If he asks for me?”
I stopped.
“I’ll decide.”
He nodded.
Inside, Hawthorne Grove smelled like expensive soap and quiet money.
Soft lighting.
Abstract art.
No locked institutional doors visible from reception, though secure units existed farther back.
Nathan had improved there.
That mattered.
Whatever secret connected this place to Sal’s money, I refused to rewrite every good thing the staff had done for him.
Dr. Foster met me.
She was sixty, calm, gray-haired, and had treated Nathan for three years.
“He’s stable now.”
“What triggered him?”
She led me toward a private family room.
“A news segment about Mr. Marino’s shipping company.”
“Why would that matter?”
“He recognized him.”
“My brother has seen Dante in newspapers.”
“He said he knew his wife.”
I swallowed.
“Did he ever tell you that before?”
Dr. Foster hesitated.
“That is complicated.”
I stopped walking.
“What does complicated mean?”
“We inherited Nathan’s records when his previous psychiatrist retired.”
“And?”
“There are references to a woman named Clara.”
My hands turned cold.
“Why was I never told?”
“Because the notes categorize the memory as part of his trauma narrative.”
I stared.
“Trauma narrative does not mean imaginary.”
“No.”
Her answer came quickly.
“And I would never use it that way.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“That whether every detail was externally verifiable or not, the memory carried real distress.”
That was fair.
I appreciated that she did not dismiss him.
“Can I see the notes?”
“With Nathan’s permission.”
Good.
He was an adult.
People often forgot that when talking about psychiatric care.
Nathan was not my property.
Dr. Foster brought me to his room.
My brother sat near the window drawing.
Tall.
Thin.
Brown hair too long.
He looked like our father when he forgot to shave.
He glanced at me.
“You came fast.”
“You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't apologize for calling.”
“I didn't call.”
“Then apologize for making your doctor call.”
He smiled faintly.
There he was.
My little brother.
I sat.
“What did you see on television?”
Nathan's pencil stopped.
“Dante Marino.”
“Yes.”
“He looks older.”
My heart tightened.
“You've seen him before?”
“Not him.”
He rubbed his fingers together.
A grounding habit.
“His picture.”
“Where?”
“Her phone.”
“Whose?”
Nathan looked at me like I should already know.
“Clara.”
I fought to keep my breathing normal.
“Tell me about Clara.”
His expression changed.
Fear.
Dr. Foster sat nearby but did not interfere.
“You don't believe me.”
“That isn't true.”
“You didn't before.”
I closed my eyes.
That hurt because it was deserved.
“I didn't know what to believe.”
“You believed the cops.”
“I was twenty-two.”
“I was seventeen.”
“I know.”
His eyes filled.
I moved closer but did not touch him until he held out his hand.
Then I took it.
“I am listening now.”
Nathan stared at our joined hands.
“I was delivering food.”
“Where?”
“The parking garage under the Calder Hotel.”
My heart jumped.
Dante and Clara had attended a charity gala at the Calder the night she died.
I knew because every Chicago paper had printed the timeline.
Nathan continued.
“My bike chain snapped. I cut through Level Three.”
He breathed faster.
Dr. Foster said:
“You’re here, Nathan.”
He nodded.
“I saw two men beside a black Mercedes.”
“What were they doing?”
“One was underneath.”
“What did you think?”
“Changing something.”
“A tire?”
“No.”
His fingers tightened around mine.
“I heard the other man say, ‘When Marino leaves, it’s done.’”
My mouth went dry.
“What did you do?”
“Took a video.”
I stopped.
“With your phone?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to it?”
“I don't know.”
“Then?”
“A woman came from the elevator.”
“Clara?”
He nodded.
“She asked what I was doing.”
“Did you know who she was?”
“No.”
“I showed her the video.”
My throat tightened.
“What did she say?”
Nathan looked toward the window.
“She went white.”
“And?”
“She told me to send it to her.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened after?”
“She took me upstairs.”
“To the gala?”
“A little office behind the ballroom.”
“What did she tell you?”
Nathan swallowed.
“That I was brave.”
I nearly broke.
Clara Marino, hours before her death, comforting my frightened seventeen-year-old brother.
“She called someone.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“What did she say?”
Nathan squeezed his eyes shut.
“Something about Vincent.”
I froze.
“Vincent who?”
“I don’t know.”
Dante had one Vincent in his inner circle.
Vincent Rinaldi.
His godfather.
His consigliere.
The man who had effectively raised him after Dante’s father died.
A man who still occupied the office two doors down from mine.
“What else?”
Nathan’s breathing changed.
Dr. Foster leaned toward him.
“You can stop.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I never finished.”
“Finished what?”
“Telling you.”
Tears filled his eyes.
“Clara told me to leave through the kitchen. She said not to use the garage.”
“Then?”
“I got outside.”
“And the bomb?”
“I heard it.”
His whole body trembled.
I moved closer.
He leaned into me.
“She was supposed to leave too.”
I held him.
“Why didn't she?”
“I don't know.”
His voice cracked.
“Maybe because of me.”
“No.”
“Maybe she stayed because—”
“No.”
I pulled back enough to look at him.
“What happened to Clara is not your fault.”
Nathan started crying.
For nine years, my brother had carried guilt nobody knew existed.
I hated every adult—including myself—who had allowed him to carry it alone.
“When were you attacked?” I asked.
“The next night.”
“Did you recognize the men?”
“No.”
“Did they ask about the video?”
“Yes.”
My heart stopped.
“What exactly?”
“One kept saying, ‘Where’s the copy?’”
Dr. Foster looked at me.
The assault had not been random.
“Did they find your phone?”
Nathan shook his head.
“Clara kept it.”
I sat back.
Clara had possession of the original video when she died.
“Anything else?”
Nathan stared at his drawing.
Three shapes.
A car.
A woman.
Two small silver marks.
“What are those?”
He touched the marks.
“Lions.”
“Lions?”
“The man standing beside the car had lions on his sleeves.”
Cufflinks.
Vincent Rinaldi wore custom silver lion cufflinks.
Every day.
A gift from Dante’s father.
I felt sick.
Nathan looked at me.
“Is she really dead?”
“Yes.”
“I knew.”
He wiped his eyes.
“But sometimes I thought maybe I remembered wrong.”
I squeezed his hand.
“You remembered what you remembered.”
Not prophecy.
Not delusion.
Memory.
Incomplete.
Traumatized.
But real.
Nathan looked toward the door.
“Is Dante outside?”
I stared.
“How did you know?”
“You look annoyed.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
“He is.”
“Does he know?”
“Not yet.”
Nathan thought for a long time.
“I want to tell him.”
“You don't have to.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I called Dante.
Three minutes later, he entered without guards.
No coat.
No gun visible.
He stopped just inside the room.
Nathan looked at him.
Dante looked at Nathan.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Nathan whispered:
“I’m sorry about Clara.”
Something happened to Dante’s face.
Nine years of stone cracked.
He crossed the room slowly.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I showed her the video.”
“So?”
“If I hadn't—”
“No.”
Dante crouched beside him.
His voice remained steady.
“My wife made her own decisions.”
Nathan stared.
“She was nice.”
Dante looked away briefly.
“Yes.”
“She said you looked mean in photographs but weren't always.”
For one extraordinary second, Dante smiled.
“That sounds like her.”
Nathan looked relieved.
Then:
“The man had lion cufflinks.”
The smile disappeared.
Dante’s eyes lifted to mine.
I did not need to say the name.
Vincent.
Dante stood.
“Emily.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The one from your office when you had a gun.”
“I am not carrying one.”
“Your face is.”
Nathan laughed softly.
Dante looked at him.
Then, incredibly, let out a breath that almost became another laugh.
The tension eased.
Until Dr. Foster entered.
“Ms. Carter?”
“Yes?”
“There is a problem with Nathan’s account.”
“What problem?”
“Administration says his funding arrangement is under review.”
“What funding arrangement?”
I stood.
“I pay every month.”
“Yes.”
“But apparently there has been a secondary grant covering certain long-term costs.”
My stomach dropped.
“From who?”
Dr. Foster handed me a printout.
Marino Family Benevolent Foundation.
I looked at Dante.
His face showed genuine shock.
“I never authorized that.”
Dr. Foster continued.
“It started nine years ago.”
The year Clara died.
The year Nathan was attacked.
Someone connected to Dante’s organization had been secretly paying Hawthorne Grove to keep my brother here.
Dante read the administrator name.
Then his face went completely still.
Authorized by: Vincent Rinaldi.
Nathan had seen the man with lion cufflinks.
May you like
And Vincent had been paying for Nathan’s care ever since.
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