Dominic had never mentioned a brother.
That was the first thing I thought.
The second was that I had apparently wandered into a family where attempted murder counted as communication.
“Your brother?” I repeated.
Dominic’s face had gone completely still.
“Julian.”
Marco nodded.
“Dorsey says Julian paid him.”
“To kill her?”
“No. Take her.”
Dominic’s jaw clenched.
“Why?”
“He wanted to know what you remembered.”
Dominic looked toward me.
The room became very quiet.
“Emma,” he said, “you need to leave Boston.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
“Then you’re going to be disappointed.”
He stared at me.
I crossed my arms.
“You don’t get to order me out of my own life.”
“Someone tried to abduct you.”
“Because of you.”
“Yes.”
“Then help me understand why.”
He looked away.
“Dominic.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“Who is Julian?”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he began.
Julian Vale was Dominic’s younger half brother.
Same father.
Different mothers.
Their father, Anthony Vale, had built the first pieces of the family empire from trucking contracts, union relationships, waterfront warehouses, and a talent for making dangerous people owe him favors.
Dominic had been raised to inherit it.
Julian had been raised to resent him.
“When our father died,” Dominic said, “he left me controlling interest.”
“How old was Julian?”
“Twenty.”
“And you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“That must have gone well.”
“It didn’t.”
Julian had received money.
Property.
Minority stakes in several companies.
But not control.
“He thought I stole his inheritance.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did you treat him like an equal?”
Dominic hesitated.
There it was.
“No.”
I sighed.
“Families.”
“You asked.”
“I did.”
Over the years, Julian became increasingly reckless.
Gambling.
Bad investments.
Connections to people Dominic refused to work with.
Two years earlier, Dominic had removed him from Vale Maritime’s board after discovering unauthorized transactions.
Julian never forgave him.
“And Victor?” I asked.
“Our godfather mediated between us.”
“Or pretended to.”
Dominic’s eyes hardened.
“That’s what I need to find out.”
The next morning, the hospital transferred me off Dominic’s case.
Officially, it was for my safety.
Unofficially, the administration had realized an ICU nurse being targeted by people connected to their most politically sensitive patient was a liability nightmare.
I expected Dominic to fight it.
He didn’t.
That hurt more than it should have.
I went three days without seeing him.
Three days working two floors away.
Three days telling myself that was better.
Then Marco found me in the cafeteria.
“He’s impossible.”
“Congratulations.”
“He fired a physical therapist.”
“He can’t fire hospital employees.”
“He discovered that.”
I sipped my coffee.
Marco sat across from me.
“He hasn’t eaten breakfast.”
“Not my problem.”
“He refuses therapy.”
“Still not my problem.”
“He threw a walker.”
I looked up.
“At someone?”
“No.”
“Then I’m maintaining professional indifference.”
Marco smiled.
“He misses you.”
My chest tightened.
“Marco.”
“He won’t say it.”
“Good.”
“He asks about you every day.”
I stood.
“Tell him to eat his breakfast.”
Twenty minutes later, I was in room 412.
Dominic looked up.
I looked at the untouched tray.
“You’re behaving like a toddler.”
His eyes changed immediately.
“Hello to you too.”
“Eat.”
“You’re not my nurse anymore.”
“Apparently you’re celebrating by starving.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Marco says you threw a walker.”
“Marco talks too much.”
“Did the walker deserve it?”
“Yes.”
I laughed despite myself.
Dominic watched me.
The tension in his shoulders eased.
“I thought you weren’t coming back.”
The words were so quiet I nearly missed them.
“I work here.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
I pulled the chair closer.
“I was angry.”
“At me?”
“At the situation.”
“You should be angry at me.”
“Why?”
“Because they came after you because of me.”
“That wasn’t your choice.”
His eyes lowered.
“People around me get hurt.”
“That sounds less like guilt and more like an excuse to keep everybody away.”
He looked at me sharply.
“Careful.”
“See? There he is.”
“Who?”
“The terrifying Dominic Vale.”
“You don’t find me terrifying.”
“I did at first.”
“What changed?”
I thought about it.
“I watched you lose an argument with a walker.”
He almost smiled.
Then I reached for his hand.
His fingers closed around mine.
It was the first time I touched him without a medical reason.
We both noticed.
Neither moved.
“You should still leave Boston,” he said.
“I’m not leaving.”
“Why?”
I looked at him.
Because I care about you.
The truth appeared inside me so clearly that it frightened me.
I didn’t say it.
Instead I whispered, “Because running has never made me feel safe.”
He understood that.
Maybe better than anyone.
Two weeks later, Dominic was transferred from intensive care to a private rehabilitation floor.
He could stand with assistance.
He could walk six steps between parallel bars.
He hated every second of being watched while doing it.
But he did it.
And every time he wanted to stop, I remembered the man who had spent eighty-nine days trapped inside his own body.
“You told me to stay,” he said once during therapy.
“Yes.”
“Now you’re telling me to walk.”
“I’m demanding.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“Keep moving.”
He took another step.
Then another.
By November, he could walk thirty feet with a cane.
The hospital prepared for discharge.
That was when the investigation changed.
Marco discovered that Julian had withdrawn nearly eleven million dollars through companies connected to Victor.
But there was something worse.
The night Dominic was attacked, Julian had been in New York.
Victor had been in Boston.
And surveillance from Pier Nine showed Victor’s car entering a restricted service road forty minutes before the shooting.
Dominic stared at the photograph for a long time.
“Julian paid for Emma’s abduction,” Marco said. “But Victor may have arranged the harbor attack.”
“Together?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
Dominic shook his head.
“No.”
We looked at him.
“Julian is reckless. Victor is patient. If they were truly working together, Julian wouldn’t hire amateurs to grab Emma. Victor would never allow that kind of exposure.”
“So they’re competing?” I asked.
Dominic nodded.
“For what?”
His answer was simple.
“Me.”
I frowned.
He explained.
Victor needed Dominic dead because Dominic had discovered financial records connecting Victor to cargo theft and illegal shipments.
Julian needed Dominic alive long enough to recover control of family trusts and private accounts that required Dominic’s authorization.
“So one wants you dead,” I said, “and one needs you alive.”
“For now.”
“That’s comforting.”
Dominic looked at Marco.
“We give them what they want.”
Marco frowned.
“What?”
“A weak man.”
I understood first.
“You want them to believe you’re still impaired.”
Dominic nodded.
“You’re being discharged in four days.”
“Exactly.”
His home would become the trap.
Vale House stood on several acres outside Boston, protected by gates, cameras, and men Dominic trusted.
He would publicly appear physically weakened and cognitively uncertain.
Privately, Marco would investigate.
I hated the plan.
Mostly because Dominic wanted me nowhere near it.
“You’re not coming,” he told me.
We were alone in his room.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were going to.”
“No, I was going to tell you.”
“Emma.”
“You still need medical care.”
“I can hire a nurse.”
Something twisted in my chest.
“Then hire one.”
I turned.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
Dominic stood from the chair.
He was stronger now, but his right leg still dragged slightly.
He reached for his cane.
Then stopped.
He looked at the distance between us.
Maybe eight feet.
He let go of the cane.
“Dominic.”
He took one step.
Then another.
His balance shifted.
I instinctively moved toward him.
“Don’t.”
I froze.
He kept walking.
Three steps.
Four.
His face tightened with effort.
Five.
Six.
Then he stood directly in front of me.
Without assistance.
Without the cane.
His breathing was uneven.
“So stubborn,” I whispered.
“You started it.”
I smiled.
Then his hand rose and touched my cheek.
Every thought disappeared.
“Come with me,” he said.
I stared at him.
“To Vale House?”
“Yes.”
“As your nurse?”
His thumb brushed beneath my eye.
“No.”
My heart pounded.
“Then what?”
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.
“The woman whose voice I followed back.”
Neither of us moved.
Then I whispered, “That sounds dangerously close to something romantic.”
“It is.”
“Dominic…”
“I know.”
“I was your nurse.”
“Was.”
“You’ve been awake less than a month.”
“Thirty-two days.”
“You counted?”
“I counted eighty-nine before that.”
I should have stepped away.
Instead I stayed.
He leaned closer slowly, giving me every chance to stop him.
I didn’t.
Our first kiss was gentle.
Nothing like the man newspapers described.
His hand rested against my cheek.
Mine settled against his chest, over the scars where bullets had nearly ended his life.
When we separated, his forehead touched mine.
“Still think you should come?” he murmured.
“That was an unethical persuasion technique.”
“Did it work?”
“Unfortunately.”
He smiled.
Three days later, Dominic left Mercy West.
The story hit every major Boston news outlet.
DOMINIC VALE RETURNS HOME AFTER NEAR-FATAL ATTACK.
Photographers crowded outside the hospital.
Dominic appeared in a wheelchair despite being able to walk short distances.
His expression remained distant.
Marco pushed him toward the armored SUV.
I exited through a private entrance.
By sunset, we were inside Vale House.
The mansion wasn’t what I expected.
It was enormous but quiet.
Old stone.
Dark wood.
A library larger than my childhood elementary school.
Family photographs lined one hallway.
I stopped before one showing two boys beside an older man.
Dominic, maybe sixteen.
Julian, around thirteen.
Their father stood between them.
Neither boy smiled.
“You found the cheerful family gallery.”
I turned.
Dominic stood behind me with his cane.
“Which one is Julian?”
He pointed.
The younger boy had Dominic’s dark eyes but a softer face.
“He looks like you.”
“He hates hearing that.”
I studied the photograph.
“Were you ever close?”
Dominic was quiet.
“When we were children.”
“What happened?”
“We grew up.”
That night, Marco increased security.
Dominic’s private physician checked him.
I was given a bedroom across the hall from Dominic’s suite.
Nobody called me his nurse.
Nobody called me anything.
Around midnight, I couldn’t sleep.
I walked downstairs and found Dominic in the library.
He was standing beside the window without his cane.
“You’re supposed to use it.”
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“I asked first.”
He smiled.
Then the security alarm sounded.
Once.
Twice.
Marco’s voice came through the intercom.
“Dominic, lock the room.”
Dominic moved instantly.
He pulled me behind him.
“What's happening?”
His phone rang.
Marco.
Dominic answered.
“Talk.”
A pause.
His face changed.
“Where?”
Another pause.
Then he looked toward the library doors.
“Dominic?” I whispered.
He ended the call.
“What?”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
“Someone entered the property through the east gate.”
“Victor?”
“No.”
“Julian?”
Dominic shook his head.
“Then who?”
A knock sounded at the library door.
Three slow knocks.
Dominic reached beneath the desk and removed a handgun.
My stomach dropped.
“Stay behind me.”
“Who is it?”
The knocking came again.
Then a woman’s voice called through the door.
“Dominic?”
He froze.
Every bit of color disappeared from his face.
I had never seen him afraid like that.
Not of Victor.
Not of Julian.
Not even when he could barely stand.
“Who is she?” I whispered.
Dominic stared at the door.
Then he said the last thing I expected.
“My mother.”
And according to everything I knew about Dominic Vale, his mother had been dead for twenty-two years.