Chapter 11 - Fire on the Harbor
Two hours later, the private wing of Mount Sinai Hospital was under complete
military-grade lockdown.
Armed guards stood at every elevator bank.
The floor was silent except for the rhythmic beep of Teresa’s cardiac monitor.
Dr. Levin had spent an hour flushing the aconite poison from Teresa’s system.
Her color was returning.
Her breathing was deep and steady.
She was finally sleeping peacefully in clean white linen.
In the adjoining private suite, a plastic surgeon had cleaned and dressed my
left hand.
Second-degree burns.
No permanent nerve damage.
A silver-infused silicone wrap protected my skin, numbing the throbbing pain to
a dull, manageable ache.
The door clicked open.
Richard entered.
He had showered.
He wore clean black trousers and a charcoal cashmere sweater.
The cut above his eye was neatly stitched.
He walked to the window, looking out over the twinkling lights of Central Park.
"Caleb is here," he said softly.
My heart leaped into my throat.
"Where?"
"In the family lounge downstairs. Margaret is feeding him pancakes. He thinks
he’s on an adventure."
Richard turned toward me.
"He’s safe, Naomi. He will never look over his shoulder again."
Tears spilled over my lashes.
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes.
"I was so scared, Richard. When I saw him on that screen..."
"I know."
He walked over and sat in the leather chair beside my bed.
He looked at my bandaged hand.
"You took a crowbar to an armed assassin for an old woman who wasn't your kin."
"She was human," I whispered.
"And she was kind."
Richard shook his head slowly.
"People have died for me for thirty years, Naomi. Men with guns. Men who took
oath rings. They died for money. For territory. For fear."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"No one has ever bled for my mother out of pure decency."
He reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a set of heavy brass keys and a thick manila folder.
He set them on my blanket.
"What is this?" I asked.
"The deed to a brownstone on 74th Street. Fully paid. Clean title under your
name."
He pointed to the folder.
"And a trust fund for Caleb. Columbia Grammar tuition through university. Fully
funded."
My breath caught.
"I can't take this. I'm a maid, Mr. Castellano. I clean floors."
"You were a maid at five o'clock," Richard said softly.
"Tonight, you proved you have more courage than any captain in my organization."
Before I could argue, the door to Teresa’s room opened.
A nurse wheeled the old matriarch in a wheelchair into my suite.
Teresa looked frail, but her eyes were bright and sharp.
"Don't give her charity, Richie," Teresa scolded in her thick Sicilian accent.
"She isn't a beggar."
Richard smiled.
A genuine, boyish smile.
"I'm giving her what she earned, Ma."
Teresa reached out and took my uninjured right hand into her wrinkled palms.
"You stayed when the metal burned your flesh, little girl. You saved my life."
She looked at her son with commanding authority.
"She doesn't work for us anymore, Richie. She is family now. Understand?"
Richard looked at me.
May you like
His slate eyes were softer than I had ever thought possible.
"Understood, Ma."
