Chapter 2 - THE BODYGUARD WHO STOPPED BREATHING
Z
Marcus Bell did not move.
That frightened Derek more than if the man had immediately denied everything.
Marcus was forty-eight, broad-shouldered, and carried a jagged scar beneath his right ear.
He had served the Russo family since Derek was seventeen.
He had taught Derek to shoot.
Taught him how to recognize a tail.
Taught him that hesitation could get a man killed.
And when Leo supposedly died, Marcus had been the person who held Derek back from attacking the funeral director.
Now Isabella Costa was pointing at him.
Derek looked toward his oldest bodyguard.
“Marcus.”
The man swallowed.
“Boss.”
“Tell me she's lying.”
Marcus stared at the floor.
The salon went silent.
Derek felt his pulse hammer against his throat.
“Tell me.”
Finally, Marcus whispered, “I didn't know what they were going to do to him.”
Derek's world seemed to stop.
Isabella closed her eyes.
It was not the reaction of a woman surprised by a confession.
It was the reaction of someone hearing a truth she had carried alone for years.
“What did you do?” Derek asked.
Marcus looked at him.
“I drove the vehicle.”
“What vehicle?”
“The one that moved Leo from the church.”
Derek stepped forward.
“After he was shot?”
Marcus shook his head.
“No.”
His voice broke.
“Before.”
Derek stared at him.
For five years, he had dreamed of his brother dying in the rain outside Saint Brigid's Church.
That was what the police report said.
That was what his father told him.
That was the story Derek had repeated until it became the foundation of everything he believed.
Now Marcus was telling him Leo had been moved before the shooting supposedly occurred.
“Where did you take him?”
Marcus swallowed.
“A private medical facility in Connecticut.”
“Why?”
“I was told he needed protection.”
“From whom?”
Marcus looked toward Isabella.
“From the people who'd attacked the Costa family.”
Derek felt sick.
“Who gave the order?”
Marcus didn't answer.
Derek moved closer.
“Was it my father?”
“Yes.”
The answer landed like a physical blow.
Derek's father, Salvatore Russo, had been dead for fourteen months.
A stroke took him at seventy-one.
He died in a private hospital surrounded by expensive flowers, two priests, and an entire generation of men who owed him favors.
At the funeral, politicians called him a businessman.
Newspapers called him controversial.
His enemies called him lucky.
Derek had called him Dad.
Now that word tasted like something rotten.
Isabella sat back in the salon chair.
She looked suddenly exhausted.
“I need food,” she said.
Derek stared at her.
“What?”
“I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. If you want answers, I'm going to need something stronger than shampoo.”
Her voice was steady.
But her hands had begun shaking again.
Derek noticed.
For the first time, he also noticed how sharp her collarbones looked beneath the robe.
How she flinched whenever someone approached too quickly.
How the bruises on her wrists had been hidden beneath dirt.
He turned toward the salon manager.
“Get her something to eat.”
Isabella looked up.
“And a doctor.”
Derek frowned.
She continued.
“You dragged an injured woman into a beauty salon. If you intend to keep her alive long enough to interrogate her, try beginning with medical care.”
For a moment, Derek stared.
Then something unexpected happened.
He laughed once.
A short, disbelieving sound.
“You're insulting me while sitting in a chair I paid three thousand dollars to reserve.”
Isabella tilted her head.
“Money doesn't improve your judgment.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
It vanished almost immediately.
Then he turned toward Marcus.
“Sit down.”
Marcus looked startled.
“Boss—”
“Sit.”
He obeyed.
Derek took out his phone.
He called an attorney who had no connection to the Russo organization.
Then he contacted an independent investigator he trusted.
Marcus watched him.
“What are you doing?”
Derek looked at him.
“Finding out what happened to my brother.”
Marcus swallowed.
“You can't involve outsiders.”
Derek's expression hardened.
“That's what my father would've said.”
The words silenced the room.
An hour later, Isabella was receiving a medical assessment in a private clinic.
A physician documented dehydration, malnutrition, bruising, and older injuries.
She was offered treatment and rest.
Derek waited outside.
For the first time in years, he didn't order someone to bring him answers.
He sat.
And waited.
When the doctor emerged, she looked directly at him.
“Mr. Russo, your guest needs medical care, regular meals, and a safe place to recover. She also needs to be free to make decisions about her own treatment.”
Derek nodded.
“Understood.”
The doctor studied him.
“Do you?”
He looked toward the examination room.
Then answered.
“I'm beginning to.”
That night, Isabella agreed to speak with him in the presence of her attorney.
She sat beneath a warm blanket, holding a cup of tea.
Her silver hair had dried into soft waves around her shoulders.
Without the grime, Derek could see the resemblance to the Costa family photographs.
But there was something else.
A scar beneath her left eyebrow.
A small burn on her hand.
And a thin line around one ankle.
Evidence of years he knew nothing about.
Derek sat opposite her.
“Tell me everything.”
Isabella looked at him.
“No.”
He frowned.
“No?”
“You'll get the part I can prove.”
Derek leaned back.
For a moment, he seemed almost amused.
“Fair.”
She set down her tea.
“Your brother discovered something about the night my family died.”
Derek waited.
“He found records showing your father had financed the warehouse operation.”
“I know our families were enemies.”
Isabella's eyes hardened.
“This wasn't a business dispute.”
She leaned forward.
“It was a cover-up.”
Derek stared.
“For what?”
She swallowed.
“For a trafficking operation that both families were supposed to expose.”
The room went still.
Then Isabella whispered:
May you like
“Leo wasn't trying to protect the Costa Syndicate.”
“He was trying to protect the children your father had been paid to make disappear.”
