Chapter 3 - THE PRICE OF SAVING A KING
Salvatore Lombardi had survived bullets, betrayals, and eight years of pain.
But when he read the message on my phone, something colder than anger crossed his face.
“Who sent this?”
“I don't know.”
“Have you received threats before?”
“No.”
He turned toward the security cameras above his desk.
“Marco!”
The door opened immediately.
A tall man with a scar across his eyebrow entered.
“Boss?”
“Find out who photographed Dr. Russo's clinic. Quietly.”
Marco glanced at my phone.
His expression hardened.
“Understood.”
I stepped between them.
“Wait. My clinic has an alarm system. I need to check on it.”
“You're not going there alone,” Salvatore said.
“I didn't ask permission.”
His eyes narrowed.
For the first time, I understood why grown men feared him.
Then he surprised me.
“No,” he said softly. “You didn't.”
He handed my phone back.
“I'll have someone drive you.”
“I can take a cab.”
“Someone is watching your building.”
“And bringing armed strangers to my clinic will make everything better?”
A long silence followed.
Then Salvatore almost smiled.
“You argue with everyone?”
“Only people who think money gives them authority over my life.”
Marco stared at me as if I'd just insulted a loaded weapon.
Salvatore reached into his desk and removed an envelope.
“The fee we agreed upon.”
I opened it.
Ten thousand dollars.
Enough to keep Dad's clinic open.
I should have been relieved.
Instead, I felt sick.
“My father saved your life,” I whispered.
Salvatore's expression changed.
“He did.”
“And somebody convinced you he betrayed you.”
“Yes.”
“Then I want the truth more than I want your money.”
He stepped closer.
“Truth is expensive in my world, Doctor.”
“So is silence.”
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he said, “Keep the money. You've earned it. And take the fragment to the laboratory yourself. I'll cover the analysis.”
I left with Marco driving and a security vehicle following at a discreet distance.
At my clinic, the front door was locked.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
But when I entered Dad's old office, I noticed something strange.
His framed dental-school diploma hung crookedly.
Dad had been obsessively neat.
He never left anything crooked.
I lifted the frame.
Behind it was a small rectangular indentation in the wall.
Inside sat a brass key.
A folded note was wrapped around it.
My father's handwriting.
LENA, IF YOU EVER MEET SALVATORE LOMBARDI, DO NOT TRUST THE STORY THEY TELL YOU ABOUT THE HARBOR.
My knees weakened.
There was another line.
THE MAN WHO ORDERED HIS DEATH IS STILL SITTING AT HIS DINNER TABLE.
May you like
And beneath it, my father had written three words.
TRUST HIS ENEMY.
