When I left the room, Marco was waiting in the hallway with the expression of a man who had already begun building three plans and five escape routes.
“Talk,” I said.
He walked beside me toward the consultation room. “Police are downstairs. They want a statement.”
“They can wait.”
“They won’t like that.”
“They rarely do.”
He lowered his voice. “Our people found her car in the employee lot. Passenger window cracked. No purse. No phone. There are shell casings, but local police already collected most of them.”
“Most?”
Marco reached into his coat and handed me a small evidence bag. Inside was a flattened brass casing.
“Found under a drain grate ten feet from the scene. Shooter used a nine millimeter. Clean, professional. No fingerprints.”
“And the black SUV?”
“Stolen plates. Traffic cameras lost it three blocks from the hospital. Whoever planned this knew the city’s blind spots.”
I looked down at the bag, then slipped it into my pocket. “The unidentified man?”
“Still in surgery. Three gunshot wounds. One serious. No ID, no phone, no wallet. Hospital staff says he was in a navy suit and had a scar across his left hand.”
My eyes narrowed.
Marco saw my reaction. “You know him?”
“No.”
But I knew the scar.
Not the man. The meaning.
Years ago, my father had told me the Bellandis marked their most trusted messengers with a cut across the left hand. Not a brand. Not a tattoo. A wound that healed into a permanent reminder: loyalty costs flesh before it costs blood.
I had thought it an old story meant to frighten children away from family business.
Apparently, I had been wrong.
We reached the consultation room. Nurse Patricia was still there, speaking quietly with another nurse. When she saw me, she straightened.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
She nodded.
“Elena had no family listed in her emergency contacts except a cousin in Albany. Is that true?”
“Yes. She’s private about personal matters. Very kind, but private.”
“Did anyone visit her recently? Anyone unusual?”
Patricia considered this. “There was a man last week.”
Marco shifted slightly.
“What man?” I asked.
“Older. Maybe late sixties. Well-dressed, but not flashy. He came to the nurses’ station asking for Elena. Said he was a family friend. She looked… startled when she saw him.”
“What did they discuss?”
“I don’t know. They went to the chapel.”
“The chapel?”
Patricia nodded. “Elena sits there sometimes after difficult shifts. She says hospitals need one room where nobody is expected to be strong.”
That sounded like Elena.
“And after?”
“She came back quiet. I asked if she was all right, and she said old stories have long shadows.” Patricia swallowed. “I thought maybe it was about her parents.”
“What about her parents?”
Patricia looked uncomfortable. “They died when she was young. Car accident, I think. Elena doesn’t talk about it.”
A car accident.
Old stories.
Long shadows.
The key pressed against my palm as if reminding me it was still there.
“Thank you,” I said.
Patricia seemed surprised by that. Perhaps people like me were not expected to thank anyone. Perhaps she had believed the stories. Most of them were true enough to be useful.
As she left, Marco shut the door behind her.
“You’re thinking Bellandi,” he said.
“I’m thinking someone wants me to think Bellandi.”
“Could be the same thing.”
“No. It never is.”
I placed the key on the table between us. Marco stared at the crest without touching it.
“After your father died,” he said slowly, “your uncle told everyone the Bellandis were finished.”
“My uncle told everyone many things.”
Marco understood what I did not say. Uncle Salvatore had ruled the family after my father’s death. He had taught me to survive, to hide emotion, to never believe a closed door meant safety. He had also taught me that the past was a weapon, and weapons were only useful when one hand controlled them.
Salvatore had died three years ago, leaving me everything except answers.
“What does it open?” Marco asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You think Elena knows?”
“I think Elena knows enough to be afraid.”