CHAPTER EIGHT
francesca
PRESENT
I had been counting down the minutes until the end of my shift. The ER was its usual whirlwind of chaos—broken bones, high fevers, and a series of minor injuries that didn’t seem minor to those experiencing them. I was utterly exhausted, my feet protesting in pain, when the next name appeared on the board: “Male, late 30s, laceration to the left forearm.”
It seemed easy enough, I thought, as I grabbed a tray of sutures and gloves. I could hear the doctor two rooms over. Looked like I just needed to get the patient’s vitals, start the chart, and set the room up in case the doctor needed to do some stitching. Just one more patient, then I’d be free.
As I pushed the curtain aside, I halted mid-step. The man on the gurney had a presence that demanded attention. He was well-dressed, his black button-up shirt rolled to the elbows, revealing a muscular forearm smeared with blood. His dark hair was slicked back, and his jaw was shadowed with a day’s worth of stubble. Yet it wasn’t just his looks that triggered alarms in my mind—it was his eyes. Cold. Calculating. Eyes I’d seen far too often in the men who drifted in and out of my brothers’ lives.
Mafioso, I thought immediately.
“Let’s have a look,”
I said, forcing my features into a mask of professional neutrality, but every part of me tensed, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.
He extended his arm with a small, tight-lipped, shark-like smile. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Nurse,”
I instinctively corrected, even as my mind raced to find someone who could take my place.
The cut was deep but clean, almost too clean. I was new, but I wasn’t stupid. “You said this was a kitchen accident?”
I asked, striving to keep my voice steady while I took his vitals and noted the chart.
He nodded, displaying no indication of being upset by my question. “That’s right. I’m clumsy. Chopping onions. The knife slipped.”
“Happens to the best of us,”
I said lightly, even as my gut told me he was lying. This wasn’t a slip. How would you cut yourself with a kitchen knife on your forearm like that on accident?
“By law, I’m required to report anything suspicious to the authorities,”
I said, my tone careful. Within the families, we had people on call for injuries, especially minor issues like this. Even in cases of severe injuries, such as what happened at Conall’s place, doctors were brought in specifically to keep the authorities uninformed.
He didn’t flinch. If anything, he appeared amused. “Do what you have to do. No sweat off my back.”
That should have been my first clue to back off, but something about him made me want to push. I kept my questions casual while arranging the items the doctor would need. “So, do you chop onions at home or work?”
“Home,”
he said, his voice as smooth as silk. “Boy, you’re one nosy broad.”
“Anyone there to help you before you came in?”
I asked, disregarding his comment. I was being overly nosy, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Nah,”
he replied, adding almost as an afterthought, “I’m not really a people person.”
A chill ran through me as he shifted his gaze from his arm to my face. He appeared too calm, too collected, even while I examined the wound. His hand shot out, gripping my wrist in a vice-like hold. I gasped, startled, and tried to pull away, but he was too strong.
“You haven’t been forgotten, Francesca Santelli,”
he said, his voice low and menacing.
Everything in me stilled.
“Excuse me? What are you talking about?”
I stammered, my pulse pounding in my ears as I struggled to remain calm. Attempting to keep my face expressionless, the words ‘deny,’ ‘deny,’ and ‘deny’ echoed in my mind.
His grip tightened, and before I could scream or call for help, he was on his feet, his free hand wrapping around my throat. He shoved me against the wall, cutting off my air with brutal efficiency. My hands clawed at his arm, panic surging as black spots danced in my vision.
“We’re watching you,”
he hissed in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “You’re a murderer.”
I struggled as my vision narrowed, but it ended just as quickly as it began. He released me, and I crumpled to the floor, gasping for air. By the time I looked up, he was gone.
The curtain fluttered behind him, and I pressed a trembling hand to my throat. My pulse raced, and my mind spun.
**
Security was called as soon as I managed to get to my feet. The bruising on my throat was already darkening, serving as a physical reminder of the man’s words. I sat in a cramped office with one of the hospital’s security supervisors, recounting the incident for the third time to the police officers who had been summoned. My voice was hoarse, but I remained calm and methodical, sticking to the facts.
“Did he say anything?”
the officer asked, his pen hovering over a notepad.
“No,”
I said, shaking my head.
The officer frowned, sensing the lie, but he didn’t push for more details. He simply jotted something down and nodded. “We have everything we need then, Miss Santelli. We reviewed the footage, but it only showed the corridor, and we couldn’t get a clear view. We suspect the name the patient provided will turn out to be fake. Do you have someone to take you home?”
“I’ll call someone,”
I said automatically, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that.
I could call Theo, but getting across town would take her forever. It’d be easier just to take the subway. My hands shook in my lap. Notifying my brother that Cosimo Oliveto sent someone after me wasn’t a great idea since I’d have to explain why he would do that. Theo and I had sworn long ago that we’d never tell. So far, we’d kept our promise. Nobody knew but us. It was better that way. It had to be Cosimo — right?
I had tried to distance myself from the mafia world as much as possible. Even getting the police involved wasn’t exactly my decision this time. The hospital had insisted on it. After picking myself up off the floor, my hand pressed to my throat, I returned to the nursing station, attempting to shake it off. A doctor who had just seen me come out of the examining room called security. Despite my efforts to downplay the situation, his brows shot up in disbelief as he glanced at my throat and the chart papers scattered on the floor.
I didn’t bother trying to explain to Dr. Jonathon Stafford that calling security was pointless and would only create more problems for me. Dr. Stafford was one of those old-school gentlemen with hair so white it resembled cotton fluff, silver-rimmed glasses, and skin as thin as paper. Still, I appreciated the effort he had made, even after I told him it wasn’t necessary.
He’d made me sit for an exam while we waited, humming and making concerned noises, asking if he could call my mother for me. I didn’t bother explaining that even if she were around, she’d be the last person concerned that I had almost been strangled.
The office door swung open, and the person I least expected stormed in. The tension in the air changed, laden with barely contained fury. Conall.
He didn’t say a word as he stepped inside, but his presence filled the room. His eyes locked onto me, taking in the bruises. He didn’t even have a suit jacket on. I couldn’t remember a time I had seen Conall O’Kelly in just his shirt sleeves during all the years I had known him. He was always impeccably dressed, with a tie pulled tight against his throat and a pocket square. Right now, Conall looked completely disheveled. The thin cotton barrier stretched as he strode toward me in unrestrained fury.
“Who did this, Francesca? Answer me. Those are bruises.”
His fingers tilted my chin so he could see.
“Mr. O’Kelly.”
One of the officers nodded respectfully, and I knew right away who had called him, though I wasn’t certain why. “We’ll review the footage and let you know if we find anything,”
the officer said, getting up from his seat. “But it doesn’t seem like anything will come up on it.”
“Thank you for your help, officer,”
I said, my voice steady despite the exhaustion pressing down on me, rising on shaky legs as the adrenaline and events hit me in a wave. The last thing I wanted was for Conall to be too involved at the hospital. It might be too late, but the sooner I could get him out, the better. “Conall, I’m not sure why you’re here.”
His mouth tightened again as his arm wrapped around me, guiding me into the hallway, where several other O’Kelly men stood, prepared to follow us. Extra security, I figured, after the incident with the Vallones.
As soon as the door closed behind us, Conall pressed. “What the hell happened?”
he asked, his voice low but vibrating with anger.
“Nothing,”
I said, unsure how to handle this version of Conall that was leaking so much emotion. Typically, he was so controlled. “It’s handled.”
“This isn’t handled,”
he snapped. “You think I’m just going to stand by while some asshole comes in here and puts his hands on you?”
His hand flexed on my waist, and I could feel him nearly vibrating next to me, his stride lengthening. He’d never touched me before, and suddenly, I felt hot.
I burned.
I looked at him then, noticing the worry beneath the anger. “Conall, I’m okay. Thank you for coming.”
My words came out softly, and I truly meant them. I struggled with the fact that he was here only because I wanted to keep things separate, yet his concern touched me. I felt confused, but it was sweet.
“A description,”
he said, the words a growl. “What did he look like?”
“I don’t think it’ll help much,”
I admitted. “Six feet, brown hair, brown eyes,”
I shrugged. “Had a knife wound. It was probably my fault, honestly, Conall. I should have known better than to push so hard. It looked suspicious. Maybe some guy who robbed someone. A druggie, likely. I questioned him about his lie about a kitchen accident. I told him I’d report it.”
All of it was wrong. I could have told Conall exactly who had sent the man to attack me, but that would have led to questions.
Conall let out a chuckle. “Damn, you’ve got guts.”
“Yeah, it was stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, principessa. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”
My hand trembled as I clutched the strap of my bag, my throat still raw and tender from the man’s hold. I forced my legs to move, step by step, while Conall’s steady hand guided me out of the hospital and into the crisp evening air. God, he had complimented me, and I was lying to him. I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat, still confused about why he had come to the hospital at all.
I had always loved the night, the way the city felt quieter. Its chaos was dampened beneath the glow of streetlights. But tonight, the darkness felt oppressive, heavy with unspoken threats. And my lies.
I could still feel the man’s hands on me, his words like shards of glass lodged in my mind. We’re watching you. You’re a murderer.
My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat as the memory replayed in a relentless loop. Theo and I had worked so hard to bury that night—every trace of it—but somehow, he knew. Fausto’s brother, Cosimo, had been everywhere searching for answers about his death, creating so much noise that even I couldn’t escape. Theo had managed the security cameras, but the bartender remembered me. That left me squarely in the same location as Fausto on the night of his death. It would only take one person to come forward, claiming they saw me get into his car, and it would be all over.
Two days after Fausto’s body was discovered, Cosimo Oliveto confronted me on my way to get coffee, asking about his brother. He wanted to know if I had seen him, danced with him, and ultimately, if I had left with him. There had been a report of a dark-haired girl leaving the club with him. Something about my response caused him to tilt his head in that same predatory way his brother had. He had nothing, but still, he made me feel like he was peeling back my skull and searching my brain — as if he knew I was lying.
Since then, he’d not approached again, but I knew he hadn’t given up. Occasionally, I’d catch him following me or parked on the street watching me. He didn’t come to talk to me, but he lounged near his car as if he wanted me to know he could get at me anytime. I was shocked that he had sent a goon after me here at my workplace. If I told Angelo about it … well, that didn’t bear thinking about — right?
The guy hadn’t said Cosimo sent him … but it made sense. I tossed it around in my brain. Who else could he be? Why else would he have been there?
A few months ago, when the Vallones sent a hit squad after Maxim and shot at Conall, Theo and I had talked again about telling, but she told me she didn’t think it was connected. The don of the Vallones was as old as dirt. He had worked with our fathers and was some piece of trash still bent out of shape because he got cut out of the trafficking arrangement established by the blood oath. Too bad for him that Ilias, Conall, Maxim, and my brother Angelo had eliminated trafficking from their organizations. Apparently, he was still butthurt about it.
Cosimo Oliveto had allied with my brother and the guys against the Vallones. That meant more than ever that I needed to keep my mouth shut. It wouldn’t do anyone any good (least of all for me or Theo) to dredge up the fact that I’d killed Fausto. Nobody seemed to know about it. Suspicions were one thing — but Cosimo Oliveto had nothing.
Nothing.
Conall’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “Francesca?”
His tone was low, striking a careful balance between concern and restraint. Tonight, I wasn’t sure I could wear the fake smile I usually displayed.
I nodded in a reflexive gesture that didn’t match the turmoil inside me. “I’m fine,”
I lied, my voice hoarse. His sharp eyes narrowed, piercing through my fa?ade. Conall didn’t tolerate dishonesty, and I didn’t enjoy lying, but this was for the greater good.
“You’re not fine. You’re white as a sheet. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”
A ghost. That’s how it felt—a phantom from my past reaching out to remind me that I could never truly outrun the life I’d been born into. I had recognized that when I stepped into the exam room and felt it in the air around the patient. He reminded me of the mafia life. The patient reeked of danger, his presence a reminder of everything I’d tried to leave behind.
But Conall didn’t know about that night, about Fausto. I had kept it from him and everyone else for years because knowing the truth would spark a war on another front. And that wasn’t what I wanted. Not for him, not for anyone.
I slid into the car at Conall’s direction, a scent of leather and Conall’s cologne wrapping around me like a delicate shield. He climbed in after me, the silence stretching as he started the engine. My thoughts raced, each one colliding with the next. This was strange. I’d never been so alone with Conall before. He’d been around me in public or with my brother, but this was private. Even his men were in a follow car.
“You’re going to tell me everything,”
he said finally, his voice tense. “Start from the beginning.”
I swallowed hard, my throat still tender. “It was just a routine case,”
I began, keeping my voice steady. “Guy comes in with a cut on his forearm. I’ve already told you.”
The trick was to keep the answers consistent in a lie. “I was just doing my job. It’s a busy hospital,”
I deflected.
Conall’s jaw twitched. “What did he do?”
“At first, nothing. He answered my questions like anyone else. But then, he grabbed me and got upset.”
I paused, carefully choosing my words. “I shouldn’t have told him I would report him.”
Conall tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “Bastard,”
he muttered. “You’re not going back there. Not until this is sorted.”
I bristled, alarmed. “You don’t get to decide that, Conall. I’m not running away from my job because of some random incident.”
That’s what I needed to convince him of: that it was just a random altercation.
His gaze flicked to me, sharp and unyielding. “It’s not running. It’s about being smart. You don’t think this was about you, do you?”
He gave me a look that seemed to peer into my soul, trying to ferret out my secrets. “This could be about the family.”
The question wasn’t judgemental but genuine. The problem with it was that I knew the answer. He was wrong, but I couldn’t tell him that. This wasn’t about famiglia. It was about the secrets Theo and I had buried, about the choices I’d made that night. Telling Conall would only drag him into the storm, and I couldn’t let that happen. He’d do something crazy like go half-cocked and attack Cosimo.
“No, I don’t think it’s about me,”
I replied softly, wishing to divert him from probing further. “But I worked hard for my life as a nurse. I’m not going to give up because of a minor incident. It was nothing.”
Conall’s jaw set, his expression dark. “It wasn’t nothing.”