Chapter 13 - WHY ETHAN WANTED ME THERE
For several hours, I wondered whether my entire involvement had been engineered by Ethan.
That possibility was worse than the headlines.
If he chose me—
why?
The spreadsheet contained payments to a healthcare staffing consultant.
My agency.
Not the agency itself.
One recruiter.
Melissa Grant.
She had personally called me about Gabriel’s case.
I remembered thinking she sounded unusually desperate.
Triple rate.
Private assignment.
Immediate start.
I had nearly refused.
Then she mentioned neurological complications.
That made me curious.
Ethan knew enough about me to predict that.
How?
Another file explained.
Three years earlier.
St. Vincent’s.
Matteo Greco.
The man I protected.
Ethan’s financial firm had represented an insurance entity connected to the attack aftermath.
My name appeared in incident reports.
He knew Gabriel respected me.
Then a theory emerged.
Ethan wanted someone Gabriel already considered trustworthy.
Not to kill him.
To make the incapacity look legitimate.
If I arrived and agreed Gabriel was unstable, my professional reputation would strengthen their case.
But I did the opposite.
I found the scar.
Luca almost laughed when investigators explained.
“Ethan hired the one person capable of ruining his plan.”
I did not find it funny.
“What was Melissa told?”
That Gabriel needed discreet nursing and specifically requested experienced critical-care staff.
Ethan arranged for my profile to rise to the top.
Gabriel’s attorney then independently recognized my name and approved it.
Two separate plans collided.
Ethan expected me to document decline.
Gabriel expected me to tell the truth.
For once, truth won.
Melissa cooperated.
She had not known about the scheme.
She received an illegal referral fee from the consultant and faced professional consequences.
But no evidence showed she knew Gabriel was being harmed.
Then another question surfaced.
Who shot Gabriel originally?
We had been so focused on the hidden procedure that the gunshot almost became background.
Police reopened the restaurant attack.
Security footage.
Vehicle records.
Phone data.
The shooter had never been identified.
Vincent denied involvement.
Ethan too.
Then investigators found a payment.
Different network.
Different source.
Not Ethan.
Not Vincent.
A rival Moretti faction led by an older cousin, Carlo Moretti.
The shooting had been real.
Unconnected to Ethan’s initial plan.
He simply exploited it.
That made everything more believable and somehow uglier.
One crime created opportunity for another.
Carlo was arrested months later on unrelated racketeering charges, with the shooting added to the investigation.
Gabriel looked exhausted when told.
“Was anyone around me not planning something?”
I thought.
“Your physical therapist seems clean.”
“Comforting.”
Then he asked:
“Does this change anything between us?”
“What?”
“Knowing Ethan helped place you in my path.”
I considered.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t decide what I did after I walked into that room.”
Gabriel stared.
I continued:
“People can manipulate circumstances. They don’t automatically own every choice made inside them.”
His expression softened.
Maybe that sentence mattered to him too.
His entire life had been built inside circumstances created by his father.
That did not mean he had to remain them.
Three months after surgery, Gabriel walked half a mile without assistance.
He sent me a screenshot from his fitness tracker.
I replied:
Show-off.
He answered:
Dinner Friday?
I wrote:
Only if you cook something edible.
His reply:
Cruel.
Friday became Sundays.
Sundays became evenings where I studied pharmacology at his kitchen table while he reviewed legitimate corporate reports.
Sometimes neither of us spoke for an hour.
I liked that.
Then one evening he closed my textbook.
“Gabriel.”
“One question.”
“You interrupted renal pharmacology.”
“I accept the risk.”
“What?”
He looked nervous again.
“Would you come to my mother’s birthday dinner?”
I stared.
“Family dinner?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds more dangerous than the penthouse.”
“Probably.”
“Will Vincent be there?”
“No. He’s awaiting sentencing.”
“Sofia?”
“Yes.”
“Luca?”
“He appears everywhere.”
I smiled.
Then:
“What am I going as?”
His expression became careful.
“Elena.”
I waited.
“Just Elena?”
“Yes.”
Good answer.
“I’ll come.”
Then he smiled.
Not the mafia-boss smile from photographs.
May you like
A real one.
And that was the moment I realized I was already in trouble.
