Chapter 3 - The Venetian Mirror
Rain was still falling over the city when I walked back onto the sixth floor of Anchor General at 6:50 PM.
The atmosphere in the private wing was distinctly different tonight.
There were four guards in the hallway instead of two. Standing by the window at the end of the corridor was a man I hadn't seen before.
He was in his late thirties, wearing a impeccably tailored charcoal suit that cost more than my annual rent. He had Salvatore’s sharp cheekbones and dark hair, but his eyes were smaller, closer together, and lit with a sharp, restless cruelty that made my skin crawl.
Leo Conti. Salvatore’s younger brother.
As I walked toward Room 618 carrying my small tote bag, Leo turned his head and locked his dark eyes onto me.
"You the night nurse?" he asked. His voice was smooth, raspy, with the distinct, heavy drawl of Boston’s North End.
"Yes," I said, keeping my hands steady at my sides. "Josephine Reyes. I'm taking over the shift from Nurse Gable."
Leo stepped into my path, blocking the doorway to Room 618. He was tall, smelling of expensive sandalwood cologne, expensive cigars, and fresh leather.
He looked down at me, his eyes trailing over my face, my uniform, and finally resting on my right wrist, which was hidden beneath a long-sleeved compression wrap I had put on to cover the bruises.
"Dr. Vance tells me you're very thorough," Leo said, his lips twisting into a thin, artificial smile. "Quiet. Doesn't chatter with the other floor staff. I like quiet people, Nurse Reyes. They usually stay alive longer in this city."
A cold spike of fear poked at my spine, but I forced my gaze to remain flat, professional, and bored.
"I'm paid to monitor vitals and maintain patient hygiene, Mr. Conti," I replied smoothly. "Not to make conversation."
Leo chuckled, a low, dry sound in his throat. He reached out, his long fingers lightly tapping the frame of the door.
"He's not going to wake up, you know," Leo murmured, looking past my shoulder into the dim room where Salvatore lay motionless. "The doctors are just dragging it out to pad their hospital bills. A man like my brother... sitting in a bed like a vegetable... it's an insult to his memory."
"That's a decision for the healthcare proxy and the attending physicians," I said.
"I am the proxy," Leo whispered, leaning in closer until I could see the tiny red broken capillaries in the whites of his eyes. "And the decision is already made. Paperwork goes to the probate court on Friday morning. Enjoy your quiet shifts while they last, Nurse Reyes. By next week, Room 618 will be empty."
He patted my shoulder—a heavy, lingering gesture that felt like a threat—and gestured for Franco to open the door for me.
I walked into the room. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, locking out the sound of Leo’s low voice in the hallway.
I set my bag down on the recliner, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Friday morning.
Today was Tuesday. That meant I had less than seventy-two hours before Leo signed the order to starve his brother to death.
I turned around and looked at the bed.
Salvatore lay under the dim amber light, his face serene, his chest rising and falling in that same rhythmic, artificial perfection.
I didn't wait for midnight. I didn't pull out the worn copy of the Odyssey.
I walked straight to the side of the bed, pulled back the long cuff of my scrub top, and unwrapped the elastic compression bandage from my right wrist.
The four purple finger marks stood out vividly against my pale skin.
I leaned down over his face, my shadow falling across his sharp features, blocking out the light from the monitor.
"Leo was just outside," I whispered, my voice sharp, cold, and stripped of all nursing sympathy. "He told me he’s filing the petition with the probate court on Friday morning to pull your feeding tube. He’s going to kill you, Salvatore."
No response. The monitor kept its steady, monotonous beat.
Heart rate: 60.
I leaned down further, until my breath brushed the silver scar across his left eyebrow.
"You called me Rosalind last night," I whispered, every word measured and sharp as a scalpel. "My father was Gabriel Reyes. He died twenty-two years ago on B Street. If you can hear me, Salvatore... if you are in there... you open your damn eyes right now, or I swear to God I’ll walk out that door and let your brother do whatever he wants to you."
The room went dead silent.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
The monitor didn't jump. The sheets didn't move.
I let out a long, shuddering breath, a sudden wave of crushing disappointment and self-loathing washing over me.
You're insane, I told myself, stepping back from the bed, wrapping my hands around my face. You imagined it. The storm, the emergency lights, the stress... he was just having a muscular spasm, a brainstem reflex, and you projected your own childhood trauma onto a dying mobster.
I turned my back on the bed and walked over to the supply cabinet to prepare his 8:00 PM IV antibiotic bag.
"He always was... an impatient bastard," a voice rasped from behind me.
I slammed the cabinet door shut, spinning around so fast my elbow crashed into the metal cart.
Salvatore Conti was sitting up.
He hadn't just opened his eyes. He had pushed his upper body off the mattress, his long, scarred arms propping his frame against the headboard. His hospital gown hung loose over his chest, revealing a long, white surgical scar running from his sternum down to his navel.
His dark obsidian eyes were fixed squarely on me, clear, sharp, terrifyingly intelligent, and entirely free of confusion.
"Salvatore..." I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.
"Lower your voice," he commanded. His voice was gravelly, deep, like two heavy river stones grinding against each other, but it held a terrifying authority that instantly filled every corner of the room. "Franco's ear is pressed against the oak frame outside that door. If he hears you shout, he’ll have his piece out before you take another breath."
I pressed my back against the supply cabinet, my heart pounding so hard against my ribs I thought it would break my sternum.
"You... you were awake," I stammered. "The whole time. Five months."
"Not the whole time," Salvatore said quietly, slowly lifting his right hand and flexing his long fingers, watching the tendons move beneath his skin with a cold, analytical fascination. "The first three months were dark. Cold water and bad dreams. But the last six weeks?"
He looked up at me, his gaze sweeping over my face, my uniform, my shaking hands.
"The last six weeks, I heard every single word you read to me, Josephine," he said softly. "I know Odysseus made it back to Ithaca. I know your father taught you how to double-stitch a leather sole when you were six. And I know your wrist hurts."
I stared at him, incapable of speech.
"Come here," he ordered gently.
"No," I whispered, holding my ground. "You... you're Salvatore Conti. You're a murderer. The papers say you run the North End."
"The papers say a lot of things written by men who have never had to bleed for their dinner," Salvatore replied calmly. He reached over, grabbed the stainless-steel guardrail of his bed, and slowly swung his legs over the side of the mattress.
My medical training kicked in, overwhelming my fear for a fraction of a second. "Don't do that! You have severe muscle atrophy! You'll collapse—"
He didn't collapse.
His feet hit the cold floor tiles with a firm, solid thud. He winced, his face going pale, a light sheen of cold sweat breaking out across his forehead as his core muscles fought against five months of disuse, but he didn't fall. He stood upright, towering over six feet tall, clutching the IV pole with one hand to stabilize his balance.
He looked like a ghost wrapped in a white hospital gown, but he stood like a king holding a sword.
"I need you to listen to me very carefully, Gabriel’s daughter," Salvatore said, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that pinned me to the wall. "Your father didn't die in a hit-and-run on B Street."
My breath hitched in my throat. "What?"
"Gabriel Reyes was my friend," Salvatore said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark register. "He was a master craftsman who specialized in building hidden compartments inside luxury vehicles for my father’s family business thirty years ago. He was a good man who wanted out of the life when you were born."
Salvatore took one slow, painful step toward me, dragging the IV pole along the floor.
"In 1999, my brother Leo decided he wanted to take over the family routes," Salvatore continued. "Your father found out Leo was skimming from the payroll and hiding the ledgers inside a car Gabriel had built. Gabriel tried to bring those ledgers to me."
Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and blinding. "And Leo killed him?"
"Leo had him run down in the street," Salvatore said, his jaw tightening until the silver scar above his eye turned bright red. "And five months ago, outside the trattoria on Hanover Street, Leo tried to put a bullet in my brain for the exact same reason."
I stood there, the reality of twenty-two years of lies collapsing around me, leaving me exposed, raw, and terrified.
"Why... why didn't you tell the police?" I choked out. "Why stay here pretending to be dead for five months?"
Salvatore let out a dark, bitter laugh, stepping closer until he stood bare inches from me, smelling of antiseptic and raw power.
"Because the police work for Leo, Josephine," he whispered softly. "The judges work for Leo. The only reason I am still breathing is because Leo needed time to find where I hid the master keys to the family’s international accounts before he pulled the plug."
He reached out, his warm, heavy hand gently wrapping around my right wrist—not with the violent grip of last night, but with a firm, protective warmth that sent a shiver down my spine.
"He found those keys two days ago," Salvatore whispered, his dark eyes burning into mine. "Which is why he’s filing the petition on Friday."
"Then you're going to die," I sobbed quietly.
May you like
Salvatore smiled—a terrifying, sharp smile that showed his white teeth, making him look like a wolf breaking through the shadows of the forest.
"No, Rosalind," Salvatore said, using my father’s secret name with absolute, unbreakable authority. "We are going to burn his world to the ground."
