Chapter 4 — A Ghost from the Past
Chapter 4 — A Ghost from the Past
The ambulance sped toward Mercy Hospital under police escort while Vincent's convoy followed close behind.
Inside the emergency vehicle, paramedics fought to stabilize Elena.
"Blood pressure dropping!"
"We're losing her!"
"Start another IV!"
Sophie sat beside the stretcher, gripping her mother's fingers with both hands.
Vincent remained silent across from them.
He had seen countless people die over the years.
Friends.
Enemies.
Strangers.
But watching this frightened little girl silently pray broke through a wall inside him that he had spent decades building.
One of the paramedics looked at Vincent.
"Are you family?"
He hesitated.
"No."
Sophie answered before he could say anything else.
"He is now."
The words hung in the air.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
At Mercy Hospital, doctors rushed Elena directly into surgery.
The red OPERATING ROOM light illuminated above the doors.
Sophie refused to let go of Vincent's hand.
Hours passed.
Neither of them moved.
Finally, just after midnight, the surgeon emerged.
"She's alive."
Sophie burst into tears and threw her arms around Vincent.
He awkwardly returned the embrace.
Across the hallway, Tony stepped away after answering a secure phone call.
His expression was grim.
"Boss."
Vincent looked over.
"What is it?"
"The three men weren't Doyle soldiers."
"Who were they?"
Tony handed him a photograph that had just been transmitted from one of their intelligence contacts.
Vincent stared at the image.
His breathing slowed.
The dead attacker lying inside the flower shop had a tattoo hidden beneath his sleeve.
A tattoo belonging to a crime syndicate Vincent had believed destroyed thirty years earlier.
Tony lowered his voice.
"Our people confirmed it."
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
"Say it."
Tony swallowed.
"They worked for Dominic Falcone."
Vincent slowly looked back toward the operating room.
"Impossible."
Tony wished he were wrong.
"Dominic Falcone died in 1957."
Tony nodded.
"That's what everyone believed."
Just then, a nurse hurried down the corridor.
"Mr. Torino..."
"What?"
"Someone left this for you."
She handed him a small black envelope with no return address.
Inside was a faded photograph.
Maria.
His late wife.
Smiling.
Alive.
On the back, written in fresh red ink, were six words that froze the blood in Vincent's veins.
I never left. Find me first.
Vincent's grip tightened until the paper crumpled in his fist.
Somewhere in Chicago...
May you like
Someone was playing a game thirty years in the making.
And Vincent had just become the final piece on the board.
