Chapter 7 - The Confrontation at the Hospital
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It was hour forty-six.
Vincent drove the black SUV himself, pushing it to dangerous speeds through the Manhattan traffic. He headed straight for Mount Sinai Hospital, where Beatrice Gallow was still recovering. He knew Carmine would be there.
He arrived with Paulie and four guards, striding through the pristine hospital corridors like a dark storm. The nurses scrambled out of their way.
They reached the VIP wing on the fifth floor. Six Chicago soldiers guarded the hallway.
"Hold it right there, Russo," the lead soldier warned, raising a hand.
"Move," Vincent commanded, not slowing his pace.
The soldiers hesitated, intimidated by Vincent's raw fury. Paulie and the guards stepped forward, creating a physical wedge. Vincent pushed past them and kicked open the door to Beatrice's private suite.
Carmine was sitting in a chair beside the bed. Beatrice lay asleep, hooked up to monitors, heavily bandaged but stable.
Carmine jumped up, his face purpling with rage. "You son of a bitch! I told you forty-eight hours!"
Vincent threw the greasy ledger onto the hospital bed, right next to Carmine's hand.
"I found your freelancers, Carmine," Vincent said, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "The ones you hired out of Queens. The ones you paid to hit your own wife."
Carmine stared at the ledger, his eyes darting wildly. "This proves nothing. It's a forgery."
"It's a ledger with your private line written next to a fifty-thousand-dollar payout," Vincent countered smoothly. "I also brought one of the surviving freelancers in the trunk of my car. He's very eager to tell the commission exactly who hired him. A man with a Chicago accent driving a silver Mercedes. Which, coincidentally, matches your top lieutenant, Frankie."
Carmine’s face paled. The bluster vanished. He knew he was caught.
"You want a war over shipping routes?" Vincent stepped closer, lowering his voice so as not to wake Beatrice. "You want to risk your wife's life for greed? If I take this ledger and this witness to the national commission, they won't just strip you of your territory, Carmine. They will execute you for breaking the peace."
Carmine swallowed hard. He looked at Beatrice, then back to Vincent. He had overplayed his hand, and he knew it.
"What do you want, Russo?" Carmine asked, his voice defeated.
"I want the New Jersey routes," Vincent demanded. "I want them signed over to me by midnight. And I want you and your men out of New York by morning. You ever step foot in my city again, and I won't need a ledger to kill you."
Carmine nodded slowly. "Done."
Vincent turned and walked out of the hospital room. He had won the war without firing a shot. The treaty was secure, and his empire was safe.
But as he drove back to the estate, the victory felt hollow. He was tired. Tired of the constant maneuvering, the violence, the endless cycle of threats.
He arrived back at the Brookline estate just as the sun began to set.
He walked into the east wing.
The door to Camila's suite was open. Nora was sitting on the floor beside Camila's armchair, reading a book aloud while Camila dozed peacefully.
Vincent stood in the doorway, watching them.
Nora looked up. She saw the exhaustion etched into his features, the bloodstains on his cuffs from the auto shop. She closed the book quietly and stood up.
"Is it over?" she asked softly.
"It's over," Vincent said.
Nora walked toward him. She didn't look at the blood or the harsh lines of his face. She looked at him with that same quiet respect she had shown him in the kitchen weeks ago.
She reached out and gently touched his arm.
"You need to sleep, Vincent."
He looked down at her hand on his sleeve. It was a simple, grounding touch.
"I don't want to sleep," Vincent whispered. "I don't want to be alone."
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Nora’s eyes softened. She didn't pull away.
"You aren't alone," she said.
