33. Sara
Sara
I approach the next few days with a renewed sense of purpose. Dante will keep doing his part, and I’ll concentrate on uncovering more proof to support my theory about the mole being a part of the medical team.
Unfortunately, my deep dive into the clinic’s archive system yielded nothing.
The schedule from the week of Jackson’s death wasn’t just deleted from the primary server…
someone scrubbed it from the entire data string.
At least that’s what Luca explained. He walked me through all the ways to recover the data, and the missing metadata left him scratching his bearded chin and fidgeting with his glasses.
Back to the drawing board, I guess.
Nine people have access to the clinic at any given time.
Four main nurses, four alternates, and a soldier tasked with supply runs and sanitizing potential evidence that can’t be fed to the basement incinerator.
He stops by twice a week to collect bloody clothes, sweat-soaked sheets, and other items to clean or destroy off-site.
He’s also responsible for burning the paperwork we shred, filling any prescriptions we write, and disposing of the occasional body. I try not to ponder that last one too much, or how all traces of Jackson were erased by the soldier on duty.
According to Jasmine, the guy picked for the medical grunt work changes every few weeks. “The men want to prove themselves so they can move up in the organization.” Jasmine brushes her obsidian hair into a loose ponytail and bends forward to fix her winged eyeliner.
I tap the files on the desk to straighten them. “So…they’re like interns?”
Jasmine’s eyes widen, and she chuckles at the comparison. “I guess, but don’t let Sammy hear you calling him that.”
Sammy comes in on Tuesdays, and I get to the clinic early enough to assist him with some of his daily tasks. During our chat, I learn he attended his sister’s birthday party the day Jackson died, not arriving at the townhouse until after the body was cold.
I wince, my nose wrinkling as I help him collect sheets and pillowcases. “I can’t imagine going from a birthday party to a dead man.”
Sammy, a young man with ginger hair and a face full of acne scars, snorts. “Tell me about it. The guy shit the bed before he died, and I had to stay late since none of the nurses on duty that night bothered to clean him up. Ruined my whole day.”
I concentrate on sanitizing the mattress to hide my sharpening interest. “Well, that’s against protocol.
Sounds like those nurses need a gentle reminder of their roles and responsibilities.
Do…you remember who, specifically, was treating him?
” I lower my voice. “Someone’s been slacking off around here, and I’m trying to figure out who before they blame me for it. ”
Sammy’s expression eases as he nods. “Yeah, it sucks being new. And no one called me in to help that patient, but I think I remember seeing someone with longish dark hair? If a name comes to me, I’ll let you know.”
Unfortunately, Sammy’s one of our alternates and also relatively new, which means he isn’t as familiar with the staff as the regulars.
While my heart attempts to beat its way out of my chest, I thank him. No hard evidence yet, but I’m closer to a potential lead.
I spend the next few days talking to everyone else, including the other nurses and some of the alternates.
By the time Thursday rolls around, I’m holed up in the office for the afternoon, reviewing employee files.
I want to keep the investigation under wraps, but I have a mountain of information to sift through.
I keep a running mental catalogue of everyone and their qualifications.
Jasmine is an RN, while Angela and I are both APRNs, Advanced Practical Registered Nurses.
The dentist on staff only comes in for the bi-yearly check-ups, as does Reese, who works as a physician’s assistant.
A fifth trauma nurse went on maternity leave right before I started, so we never had a chance to meet.
Setting aside my file as well as Angela’s, I focus on the names I’m left with. Sammy described a dark-haired woman, which rules Reese—a part-time bodybuilder with a spikey purple mohawk—out.
I struggle to imagine Jasmine’s involvement in Jackson’s death, but I can’t cross her off the list yet. Another woman, Claire, also had the opportunity.
Sighing, I sag into the chair. The four alternate clinic workers don’t live in the townhouse and are only called in case of emergency or if one of the regulars can’t come in.
The likelihood of one of them sneaking into the townhouse, committing the murder, and then escaping before anyone noticed seems pretty damn slim but not impossible.
If Claire and Jasmine turn out to be a bust, I’ll investigate the alternates next. According to my list, their names are Carmen, Delilah, Mario, and Roberto.
Roberto. Why does that name sound so familiar?
The door slips open, and I stiffen at the unexpected intrusion, but it’s only Angela. She jumps at the sight of me and then laughs. “What are you doing in here? I thought you were done for the day.”
I groan and bang my forehead on the desk. “Dante said I could help figure out the identity of the mole, but I’ve already been at it for hours today and still nothing.”
Angela goes so quiet that I roll my head to the side so I can peek at her. Her expression is carefully blank. “You?”
While her disbelief stings, I can’t really blame her. Up until a few weeks ago, I was locked in a cell. Now I’m hunting a killer. “I know, right?” Even after my conversation with Dante, Angela’s doubt leaves me feeling self-conscious. “Still, I think I’ve got a decent lead or two.”
If I’m wrong, I might be subjecting some poor woman to Dante’s torture for no reason other than the color of her hair, so my investigation needs to be thorough.
With a chuckle, Angela perches on the edge of the desk and picks up the files.
“You an extra on Forensic Files now?” Going through each page one by one, she hums in an almost dismissive nature.
“I get that you want to be helpful, but I don’t think this is the right way.
I know these people, and none of them would betray the Argentos. ”
I shrug. “Maybe whoever did this doesn’t consider it a betrayal.”
Angela’s spine goes ramrod straight, her attention shifting from the files to me. “What do you mean?”
I stand, take the folders back from her, and shrug again. “I was just spitballing.”
What if we’ve been painting the mole in the wrong light?
If someone wanted to harm the Argentos, they would have gone after Dante directly instead of undermining his search for the Ghost at every turn or targeting me.
What does the mole have to do with Dante’s final torturer, the Ghost… or aka, Enzo Conti?
I sigh and tuck Jasmine and Claire’s folders under one arm before putting the rest away. “At this rate, it’s only a matter of time before we find out who’s behind it all.”
Angela whistles, impressed, but then her brows draw down, and her mouth tightens. “You should be careful. The Council has eyes everywhere, and if they learn you’re digging into something you’re not supposed to, they won’t be happy.”
Dante must be rubbing off on me because I snap back. “They should have thought about that before they came after us.”
Angela’s shocked cackle follows me as I stalk through the clinic to meet Marco. Her words stick with me for the remainder of the day.
Later, I flop back onto my bed and blow out a breath. Mole and Ghost aside, things between Dante and I are getting…complicated. I snort at my own thought. Complicated doesn’t quite cover it. Since we started working together in earnest on all this stuff, he’s different.
Not the cruel beast he was when I arrived, nor the attentive easygoing lover I knew all those years ago, but something in-between.
Something new. And now that I’ve taken these baby steps into his world, he respects me more, values my opinions, my contributions.
I might not exactly be a full-fledged mafioso yet, but if he gave me the chance… I think I would be. For him.
Despite everything, I can’t deny that I’m just as in love with him as I’ve always been.
Maybe even more. But while he regards me with soft affection, he hasn’t admitted to any genuine feelings out loud.
That fuels my doubts, which insist this is all an act, a trick designed to break me the way he breaks everything else.
Groaning, I scrub my palm over my face before checking the time on the bedside clock. Dante and I usually meet at seven, except it’s forty after and still no Dante.
I sit on the edge of my bed, my leg bouncing in agitation. While my thoughts start to run away with me, I wander toward the window.
If I can’t make myself useful, he’ll throw me away. In fact, maybe tonight’s absence is punishment for my lack of progress. I’ve never done anything to warrant abandonment, but Dante has treated me worse over less. And the people I love tend to leave.
Shit. I can’t do this anymore.
In a few agitated strides, I’m out of my room, across the hall, and in front of his door. Raising my hand to knock, I end up channeling my inner-Dante instead and just bust right in.
What I see halts me in my tracks.
By the window, Dante stares at the street below, holding his shirt in one hand and treating me to the sight of his bare, muscular back.
When he turns to face me, my heart shatters at all the blood.
I scan him from head to toe, and my pulse only calms once I determine he’s not wounded.
The blood belongs to someone else, probably the unlucky soul he was torturing upstairs.
My feet lead me across the space, but I stop just shy of touching him. When the shadows clouding his eyes finally disperse, he blinks, surprised by the sight of me. “Sara? What are you—?”
“Who are you?” I whisper
Hurt flashes over his face as he tries to turn away, but I grip his jaw to stop him.
I don’t want him to hide from me. Never again.
“You’ve gone out of your way to introduce this version of yourself to me, to prove that whoever you were before no longer exists, and I deserve to know which one of you is real. Which you am I in love with?”
Which man am I trying to comfort right now? Who is this person gazing back at me, his expression as cold as ice? Dante’s eyes roam my face, and he opens his mouth like he wants to speak but can’t articulate the truth.
My chest tightens as his silence grows, and I resist the violent urge to tear at my skin. Did I really think he’d tell me?
“Do you even know?” I drift closer. “Are you the blood-soaked monster? Or the one who spends his nights with Pistol and me? Are you a murderer or a man who loves unequivocally only when he thinks no one else can see?” I swallow hard. “I need to know who it is I’m risking my life to be with.”
Dante’s expression shatters like glass, and when he reaches for me, I realize that I’ve finally pushed him too far, too fast.
There’s no coming back from whatever happens next.