Chapter 7 - THE DOCTOR WHO SIGNED THE DEATH CERTIFICATEContinued
“Because Vincent ordered it.”
For fourteen months, I had imagined a thousand different ways my wife could have died.
I had imagined her calling my name.
I had imagined her lying on the pavement, wondering why I wasn't there.
I had imagined her last breath.
But I had never imagined that somewhere in the world, Isabelle might still be breathing.
And that my own brother had made sure I believed otherwise.
I stared at Dr. Eleanor Price.
“Where did they take her?”
She looked toward the window.
“Dominic, please—”
“WHERE?”
Grace grabbed my arm.
“Dominic.”
I turned toward her.
She didn't flinch.
“Listen to the answer.”
I closed my eyes.
Forced myself to breathe.
Then I looked back at Eleanor.
“Tell me where they took my wife.”
Eleanor's hands shook.
“An ambulance arrived around eleven thirty that morning. It wasn't registered to our hospital.”
“Who was driving?”
“Two men. One wore a paramedic uniform. The other had a private security badge.”
“Did you recognize them?”
“No.”
“Did Vincent go with her?”
She nodded.
“He rode in the front.”
I gripped the chair.
“Where did the ambulance go?”
“I don't know.”
I stared at her.
“You expect me to believe that?”
She began crying.
“I tried to find out. After they left, I checked the transfer records. Everything had been deleted.”
Grace leaned forward.
“Did you keep anything?”
Eleanor hesitated.
“Some documents.”
“What documents?” I demanded.
She looked at the locked cabinet beside her desk.
Then she slowly stood.
“I knew someone would eventually come.”
She crossed the room, retrieved a key from beneath a ceramic bowl, and opened the cabinet.
Inside sat a small metal box.
She carried it to the table.
“I kept these because I couldn't live with what I'd done.”
She opened the lid.
Medical charts.
Two photographs.
A handwritten note.
And a hospital identification bracelet.
I picked up the bracelet.
ISABELLE ROMANO.
My wife's name.
Her date of birth.
Her medical record number.
The bracelet was stained.
I held it so tightly that the plastic cut into my palm.
Grace examined the photographs.
The first showed Isabelle lying on a hospital bed.
Her shoulder was bandaged.
Her face was pale.
But her eyes were open.
I recognized those eyes.
I had spent eleven years waking up beside them.
“Oh, God.”
My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
I touched the photograph.
Isabelle.
Alive.
After the shooting.
Eleanor whispered, “She asked for you.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Before they took her away.”
My chest tightened.
“What did she say?”
“She kept asking where Dominic was.”
I lowered my head.
Eleanor continued.
“She said she needed to tell you something about the girls.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Did she say what?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“She was heavily sedated. She kept repeating that the butterflies weren't toys.”
I looked at Grace.
The pendants.
Three daughters.
Three pieces of evidence.
Isabelle had tried to protect us even while lying wounded in a hospital bed.
I picked up the handwritten note.
It contained an address.
A building in northern Pennsylvania.
At the bottom were two words.
Saint Agnes.
“What is this?”
Eleanor looked uncomfortable.
“It's where the ambulance was registered.”
I stared at her.
“You said you didn't know where they took her.”
“I didn't. The registration was the only lead I found.”
“Did you investigate?”
She nodded.
“The building used to be a rehabilitation hospital. It closed almost ten years ago.”
“Who owns it?”
She swallowed.
“A private company.”
“What company?”
“Bellucci Medical Holdings.”
I felt the final piece slide into place.
Anthony.
My attorney.
The man who handled Isabelle's estate.
The man who signed my business agreements.
The man who had stood beside me at the funeral.
He owned the facility connected to her disappearance.
I folded the note.
“We're leaving.”
Eleanor grabbed my arm.
“Dominic, there's something else.”
I stopped.
“What?”
She pointed toward the second photograph.
It showed Isabelle being transferred into an ambulance.
A man stood beside the rear doors.
His face was partly hidden.
But I recognized the watch.
The posture.
The silver hair.
Anthony Bellucci.
My oldest friend.
Eleanor whispered, “He was there.”
I stared at the photograph.
Then she said, “And he wasn't alone.”
I looked closer.
A woman stood beside Anthony.
Her back was turned.
She wore a cream coat.
Her hair was tied into a low bun.
I knew that coat.
I had bought it for her birthday.
My hands started shaking.
“Isabelle?”
Eleanor nodded.
“She was able to stand briefly.”
I stared at my wife.
Standing beside the man who had arranged her disappearance.
Why?
Had Anthony forced her?
Had she been trying to escape?
Or had I misunderstood everything?
Eleanor looked at me.
“Your wife said something before she entered the ambulance.”
“What?”
“She told Anthony that if he hurt her children, she would tell you everything.”
My heart pounded.
“Everything about what?”
Eleanor swallowed.
“About the night your father died.”
I stepped backward.
My father.
Salvatore Romano.
Dead for twenty-one years.
Officially killed during a robbery.
Vincent and I had built our lives around avenging him.
Anthony had been his attorney.
Isabelle had never even met my father.
How could she know anything about his death?
Grace touched my arm.
“Dominic?”
I couldn't answer.
Eleanor whispered, “Whatever happened to your wife didn't begin fourteen months ago.”
I stared at the photograph.
“It began with your father.”
Before I could ask another question, a car door slammed outside.
Eleanor turned pale.
She hurried toward the window.
Then she stopped.
“Oh, God.”
I moved beside her.
A black SUV had pulled to the curb.
Two men stepped out.
One held a phone.
The other wore a dark jacket.
I recognized him immediately.
Carlo Vescari.
The man who had tried to kill me inside my burning mansion.
He looked directly toward the townhouse.
Then raised his phone.
Mine vibrated.
A text from Vincent.
You should have stayed away from the doctor.
I looked at Grace.
“Back door. Now.”
Eleanor grabbed the metal box.
Grace ran toward the kitchen.
I followed.
Behind us, someone pounded on the front door.
“Dr. Price!”
Eleanor froze.
A familiar voice shouted.
“Open up! We just want to talk!”
Carlo.
I pushed Eleanor toward the kitchen.
“Move!”
The front door crashed open.
Footsteps thundered into the hallway.
We reached the back entrance.
Locked.
I turned the key.
Pulled.
The door opened onto a narrow garden.
A wooden fence separated the property from an alley.
Grace climbed first.
Eleanor handed her the box.
I helped Eleanor over.
Then I heard Carlo behind me.
“Dominic!”
I turned.
He stood at the kitchen doorway.
His gun was raised.
For one second, neither of us moved.
Then he smiled.
“Your brother says hello.”
A gunshot cracked through the kitchen.
I dropped behind the counter.
Glass exploded above me.
I fired toward the doorway.
Carlo retreated.
I ran through the garden.
Climbed the fence.
Landed hard in the alley.
Grace grabbed my hand.
“Car!”
We sprinted toward Samuel's sedan.
I threw the medical box into the back seat.
Grace helped Eleanor inside.
I started the engine.
The black SUV rounded the corner.
I accelerated.
Tires screamed.
The SUV followed.
I turned onto the main road.
Then another call came.
Vincent.
I answered through the car speakers.
“What do you want?”
My brother laughed softly.
“Dominic. You always were stubborn.”
“Where's Isabelle?”
Silence.
Then he said, “You really don't understand what's happening, do you?”
“Tell me where she is.”
“Go home, Dom.”
“You burned my home.”
A pause.
“Then find another one.”
I gripped the wheel.
“I'm going to find her.”
Vincent's voice became cold.
“Then you'd better find her before Anthony does.”
The line went dead.
I looked at Grace.
She stared at me.
“Dominic…”
“What?”
“Your brother just gave us something.”
I frowned.
“What?”
She looked at the Pennsylvania address.
“If Anthony is looking for Isabelle too…”
I finished the thought.
“Then Vincent doesn't know where she is.”
Behind us, the SUV accelerated.
And for the first time since Isabelle disappeared, I understood that the men who had destroyed my family were no longer working together.
May you like
They were hunting one another.
And somewhere between them was my wife.
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