Chapter 5 - Margaret Cole's ConfessionElena forgot her pain.
Elena Whitfield proved him wrong twice in one night.
“My father worked for yours,” she repeated.
Damian closed the hospital room door.
“What was his name?”
“Thomas Whitfield.”
“I heard you.”
“No. I mean before that.”
She swallowed.
“Thomas Vescari.”
The name struck Damian like a fist.
He remembered it.
Everyone from the old generation remembered it.
Thomas Vescari had been one of Patrick Cole's financial advisers during the violent expansion years.
Then, seventeen years earlier, Vescari vanished.
Rumors claimed he had stolen from Patrick.
Other rumors claimed rivals murdered him.
Damian had been twenty-one.
Too young to know the truth.
“You're Vescari's daughter?”
“My mother changed our name after he disappeared.”
“But you said he died seven years ago.”
“He did.”
“How?”
“Car accident outside Richmond.”
Damian's instincts sharpened.
“Accident?”
Elena gave him a bleak look.
“That's what I believed until tonight.”
Damian sat slowly.
“Start from the beginning.”
She did.
Thomas Vescari had moved his wife and eleven-year-old daughter out of New York without explanation.
They lived under the name Whitfield.
He became a bookkeeper for a construction company.
He never discussed the Coles.
Never mentioned organized crime.
Never told Elena why they moved.
But he became paranoid.
Changed cars regularly.
Checked locks three times before bed.
Burned mail.
Refused family photographs online.
Seven years earlier, his vehicle crossed the median on Interstate 95 and struck a barrier.
Police said he had fallen asleep.
Elena believed it.
Until now.
“My mother died two years after him,” she said. “Cancer.”
“So you came back to New York.”
“I needed work.”
“And accidentally took a job in my mother's house?”
She looked at him.
“That part wasn't accidental.”
Damian stood.
“Elena.”
“I wanted answers.”
His face hardened.
“You infiltrated my home.”
“I applied for a legitimate job.”
“To investigate my family.”
“Yes.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
Damian walked toward the window.
Anger rose automatically.
But it collided with the image of her body hitting concrete.
Five bullets.
His anger lost.
“What were you looking for?”
“Something my father left behind.”
“What?”
“A ledger.”
Damian turned.
Elena continued.
“Before he died, he told me if anything ever happened to him, I should find Patrick Cole's black ledger.”
“My father's?”
“He said it contained proof of everything.”
“Everything what?”
“I don't know.”
Damian paced back.
“You had six months inside the estate. Why didn't you tell me?”
She stared at him as if the answer were obvious.
“Because you're Damian Cole.”
He almost smiled despite himself.
“Fair.”
“I didn't know whether your father was the villain or my father was.”
“And now?”
“I still don't.”
Damian considered that.
Then his phone rang.
Anthony.
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
“What happened?”
“Vincent escaped.”
Damian's expression went blank.
“How?”
“Power outage in the lower level. Backup system failed for forty-three seconds.”
“Someone helped him.”
“Obviously.”
“Casualties?”
“One guard unconscious. Alive.”
Damian looked at Elena.
“Lock down the hospital.”
Anthony understood immediately.
“You think he'll come there?”
“I think Elena has become very inconvenient.”
Damian ended the call.
He moved toward the door.
Elena struggled upright.
“Where are you going?”
“To make sure nobody enters this floor.”
“You can't guard an entire hospital.”
“Watch me.”
“Damian.”
He stopped.
“There's something else.”
He slowly turned.
“My father sent me a key three days before he died.”
“What kind?”
“A safe-deposit key.”
“Where?”
“I don't know. There was no bank information.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
Damian cursed quietly.
“What?”
“If Vincent knows who your father was, he may know about the key.”
Elena pushed aside her blanket.
Pain hit instantly.
Damian crossed the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Going home.”
“You can't stand.”
“I need that key.”
“You need a functioning liver.”
“Damian—”
“Absolutely not.”
“It's mine.”
“And if someone is waiting in your apartment?”
“I'll call police.”
He stared.
Elena sighed.
“Fine. Bad example.”
“You're staying here.”
“You don't control me.”
“No. But your medical chart currently does.”
She glared.
He liked her glare.
Far too much.
“You're infuriating.”
“So I've been told.”
“Frequently?”
“Mostly by you.”
A sound came from the hallway.
A metallic crash.
Damian's head turned.
Instinct.
He reached beneath his jacket.
The door opened.
A man in blue scrubs entered pushing a medication cart.
Damian studied him.
The man smiled politely.
“Time for Ms. Whitfield's antibiotics.”
Something was wrong.
Damian couldn't identify it.
Then Elena did.
“He isn't my nurse.”
The man's hand dropped beneath the cart.
Damian moved.
The gunshot shattered the window.
Damian slammed Elena's bed sideways while firing toward the attacker.
The man ducked.
Hospital alarms exploded.
Two Cole guards rushed in.
The fake nurse fired twice.
Then fled through the corridor.
Damian chased him.
Patients screamed.
Staff scattered.
The attacker reached the stairwell.
Damian followed.
Down three flights.
Through an emergency exit.
Onto a loading dock.
A black SUV waited.
The man jumped inside.
Damian fired at the tires.
The SUV swerved away.
Gone.
Damian stood breathing hard.
Then noticed something on the ground.
A photograph.
Dropped during the escape.
He picked it up.
It showed a little girl.
Maybe nine years old.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
Elena.
Beside her stood Thomas Whitfield.
And beside Thomas—
Damian's father.
Patrick Cole.
All three smiling.
Written across the back:
ASK MARGARET WHICH CHILD WAS REALLY SAVED THAT NIGHT.
Damian stared at the message.
He returned to Elena's room.
His mother had arrived during the chaos.
Margaret sat beside Elena.
Damian entered.
Placed the photograph on the table.
Margaret saw it.
Every trace of color vanished from her face.
“Where did you get that?”
Damian closed the door.
“Mom.”
Margaret looked toward Elena.
Then away.
“Tell us.”
Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
“I prayed this would stay buried.”
“What?”
She looked at Damian.
“Your father didn't betray Thomas Vescari.”
“Then who did?”
May you like
Margaret whispered:
“I did.”
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