Chapter 4 - A Summons to the Docks
Three months passed. Spring arrived in Brooklyn, bringing warm breezes and blooming cherry blossoms along the avenues.
With my tuition cleared and my housing stabilized, I officially resigned from Bellarosa and threw myself entirely into my final semester of nursing school. My days were filled with intensive clinical rotations, pharmacology exams, and twelve-hour shifts at Brooklyn Memorial Hospital.
Yet, Antonio Russo’s shadow remained subtly draped over my life.
Paul was still there, a silent guardian sitting in the hospital lobby during my late-night emergency room rotations. I never saw Antonio himself, but occasionally, small gestures would arrive: a basket of fresh organic fruit delivered to the nurses' breakroom, a brand-new top-of-the-line stethoscope waiting in my locker with no return address, or a subtle word from the hospital security chief ensuring I was always assigned to the safest well-lit parking areas.
I had become a ghost wrapped in silk—protected by an invisible emperor.
On a rainy Thursday night in late April, I stepped out of the hospital’s rear exit after finishing an exhausting fourteen-hour rotation in the pediatric ward. Rain was pouring in heavy sheets, bouncing off the asphalt.
Instead of sitting parked across the street, the black sedan was idling directly at the curb of the ambulance bay. Paul stepped out holding a large black umbrella, opening it over my head before I could even pull up my hood.
“Good evening, Miss Sophie,” he said politely.
“Paul,” I replied, wiping a stray drop of rain from my cheek. “Is everything alright? You don't usually park right at the doors.”
“Mr. Russo requests your presence tonight,” Paul said simply, opening the rear door of the vehicle. “His mother is unwell.”
My pulse immediately spiked, nursing instincts overriding any lingering anxiety about meeting the mafia boss again. “Is it her heart? Did anyone call an ambulance?”
“She refused the hospital,” Paul explained as I climbed into the soft leather interior. “She asked specifically for you.”
The sedan pulled away smoothly, navigating the rain-slicked streets of Brooklyn. But instead of heading toward the wealthy residential brownstones of Park Slope or Brooklyn Heights, the car headed south, deep into the industrial shipping district along the Red Hook waterfront.
Huge iron warehouses loomed out of the dark, their rusty corrugated roofs beaten by the rain. The car turned down an unmarked gravel drive leading to a massive, gated compound overlooking the dark, churning waters of the Upper New York Bay.
Two heavily armed guards in tactical gear checked the sedan at the perimeter gate before waving us through.
The car brought us to a stop outside a beautifully restored three-story brick building that looked like an old naval administration facility. Tall arched windows offered a sweeping view of the distant, glowing skyline of Manhattan across the water.
Paul led me inside, through a gleaming lobby lined with polished mahogany and antique shipping maps, and up a grand spiral staircase to the private residential quarters on the top floor.
The door at the end of the hall swung open, and Antonio Russo stepped out into the corridor.
He had rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, his dark silk tie loosened at the collar. He looked tired, lines of deep stress etched around his dark eyes, but the moment his gaze landed on me, that familiar, intense focus settled over his features.
“Sophie,” he said, his baritone voice low and quiet. “Thank you for coming.”
“Where is she?” I asked instantly, setting my heavy medical tote bag on a side table.
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“In the bedroom,” Antonio said, gesturing down the hall. “Our private physician examined her an hour ago. He says it’s mild congestive heart failure complicated by fluid retention, but she’s agitated, refusing her oxygen mask, and asking for you.”
I didn't wait for permission. I walked straight down the hallway and pushed open the heavy oak door to Maria’s bedroom.
