Chapter 2 - The Grimaldi Debt
The breath caught in my throat. I knew the name now. Everyone in Boston knew the name Grimaldi, though it was whispered in low tones in the back corners of old Italian restaurants or discussed in frantic, closed-door meetings at the State House. They were the architects of the city’s underbelly—an ancient, deeply entrenched syndicate that controlled the shipping docks, the northern transit lines, and half the real estate from Back Bay to the waterfront.
And the man standing in front of me could only be one person.
Anthony Grimaldi. The youngest son. The man who had taken over the family empire after his father’s stroke, consolidating power with a chilling, mathematical precision that had left three rival factions entirely dismantled within twelve months.
"Mr. Grimaldi," I breathed, my hand flying to my collarbone, feeling the rapid, erratic thumping of my own pulse. "I... I didn't know you came here."
"I come here every Tuesday at midnight," Anthony said, taking a slow step toward me. His heavy leather shoes didn't click on the asphalt; they rolled with a silent, predatory grace. "It is the hour the hospital declared her time of death. Two years ago tonight."
I looked down, the familiar, crushing weight of failure wrapping around my ribs. "The damage to her ascending aorta was too extensive. The tissue was like tissue paper. Every stitch I placed..." I stopped, my voice breaking. "I did everything I could. But it wasn't enough."
Anthony stopped exactly three feet away from me. He was so close I could smell the faint, rich scent of his cologne—sandalwood, rain, and the distinct, metallic tang of an expensive firearm hidden beneath his silk-lined coat. He looked down at my shivering frame, his gaze tracking from my bare, soaked arms to the blood slowly oozing from my scraped palm.
Without a word, he unbuttoned his heavy charcoal overcoat.
"What are you doing?" I asked, stepping back in a panic.
He ignored my protest, stepping into my space with an absolute disregard for my boundaries, and draped the coat over my shoulders. The warmth of his body heat trapped within the fabric hit me like a physical wave, shocking my system out of its hypothermic tremors. It smelled entirely of him—powerful, clean, and terrifyingly safe.
"You have been punishing yourself for twenty-four months for a death that was ordained by God, Dr. Collins," Anthony said, his fingers briefly brushing my jawline as he adjusted the collar. His touch was surprisingly warm, a stark contrast to the absolute ice in his eyes. "My mother’s heart was failing long before she arrived at your ER. I know the truth. I had her medical records vetted by three surgeons in Zurich before her surgery."
I stared up at him, the rain streaming down his face, highlighting the hard, beautiful angles of his features. "Then why look at me like that? Why follow me?"
"I don't follow you," Anthony said softly, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on my arms stand up. "But I watch over what belongs to my mother’s memory. For two years, my scouts have told me about the blonde surgeon who sits by the fence in the rain every Tuesday night. I wanted to see if you were real. Or if you were just a ghost created by my own grief."
May you like
He turned back toward his waiting armored vehicle—a sleek, matte-black Mercedes SUV that sat idling at the edge of the lot.
"Go home, Hannah," he commanded, using my first name with an ease that made my stomach twist. "Get out of the cold. The Grimaldi family does not forget those who tried to preserve our blood. Even if they failed."
