Chapter 3 - Ghosts of the Past
Roman stood outside Room 412 for another ten minutes, motionless as a gravestone.
Inside, Claire had peeled an orange from her lunch bag, dividing the segments carefully on a paper napkin. She was reading aloud from a dog-eared paperback about space travel, her voice melodic and soothing. Mateo leaned against her shoulder, his small, thin fingers tracing the embroidery on her oversized green sweater.
"Will the man with the big house let you stay home this weekend?" Mateo asked suddenly, his eyelids drooping.
Claire’s voice didn't waver, but her hand paused over the book. "Mr. Vance is very busy, bug. He needs the house kept clean. Besides, working for him pays for the special doctors. Remember what we talked about? Dr. Chen’s physical therapy program?"
"I don't like the machine," Mateo mumbled, burrowing into her side. "It pinches my legs."
"I know it hurts, sweetheart. But the machine wakes up your nerves. One day, you’re going to run down to the lake. You’re going to chase the ducks, just like you used to dream about."
"Did you ask him for more money?"
"No," Claire said firmly, her tone hardening just enough to brook no argument. "We don't ask for handouts. We earn what we need. Mr. Vance pays me fairly, and that’s all we ask of anyone. Understand?"
Roman stepped backward, his boots making no sound on the linoleum. Every word felt like a physical blow against his ribs.
She called him *Mr. Vance*—the clean, corporate alias he used for his residential deeds and tax filings. She had no idea he was Roman Torrio. Or did she? Did she know that the man whose marble hallways she scrubbed on her hands and knees was the very monster whose gasoline-soaked order had crushed Mateo’s spine and killed her sister?
Roman turned and walked swiftly down the corridor, passing the nurses' station without a glance. He took the stairwell two steps at a time, bursting out into the cold, rainy air of the parking garage.
He slid into his Mercedes, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel so hard the seams groaned. He pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed Wesley.
The line picked up on the second ring. "Boss? You find her?"
"Cancel the surveillance," Roman said. His voice was raw, stripped of its usual cool authority.
"What happened? Is she dirty? Did Doran get to her?"
"She isn't selling anything, Wesley," Roman said quietly. "Pull the team. Clear the logs. Nobody touches Claire. Nobody even looks at her sideways. If a single one of our people steps within three blocks of Bellweather Children’s Hospital, I’ll take their fingers off."
A long silence hung over the line. Wesley had been Roman’s lieutenant for over a decade; he knew the exact cadence of his boss’s fury, but he had never heard this hollow, haunted vibration before.
"Understood," Wesley replied cautiously. "What do you want me to do about the leak with Doran’s route, then?"
"Find the real rat," Roman growled. "Leave Claire out of it."
He hung up, leaning his forehead against the cold steering wheel. Through the windshield, the red emergency room lights pulsed against the falling rain. He had spent his entire life building an empire of fear, believing that power was the only absolute shield against the world’s cruelty.
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Yet inside that room, a woman with ten dollars in her purse and calloused hands was carrying a burden heavier than any empire Roman had ever built—a burden Roman had carved onto her back with fire and greed.
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