Chapter 6 - THE NURSE'S SECRETThe door to my mother’s bedroom was ajar. The soft, rhythmic hiss of the ventilator filled the hallway. I pushed it open gently.
Delia was sitting in the armchair beside my mother’s bed. She had changed out of her uniform into a simple gray sweater and dark slacks; the bandage at her temple was clean, stark against her dark hair. She was holding my mother’s frail, paper-thin hand, softly humming an old lullaby I hadn't heard since I was a child.
She looked up as I entered, stopping the hum. "Is it done?"
"Arthur is in the basement. Celeste is locked upstairs. The federal marshals are en route," I said, walking over to the bed and looking down at my mother. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful. "The empire they built on my brother’s grave is dismantled."
Delia let out a long, shuddering breath, her shoulders sagging as if a fifty-pound weight had finally been lifted from her back. "I thought... for six years, I thought no one would ever know. When Ewan died, I went into hiding. I changed my name, dyed my hair, took nursing school classes just so I could get close enough to this house to find proof. I didn't care about the money. I just wanted someone to know he wasn't a criminal. He was trying to stop them."
I pulled up a chair and sat opposite her, studying her face—really studying her, for the first time since she had walked into my life two years ago.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner, Delia?" I asked softly. "You worked in this house for two years. You watched me run this city with an iron fist. If you had come to me on day one, I would have torn the Vandermarks apart before they even knew what hit them."
She gave a small, sad smile, shaking her head. "And what would you have done, Mr. Vance? You were a boss. You operated on vengeance, leverage, and fear. If I had come to you with grief and old photographs, you would have treated it like a turf war. It would have been messy. People would have died for the wrong reasons." She squeezed my mother’s hand. "Ewan didn't want a war. He wanted justice. And justice only works when you have the truth, not just a gun."
I sat in silence, letting her words sink deep into my chest. For the first time in my life, a woman had looked the devil in the eye and told him he was holding the pitchfork wrong.
"You're not a nurse, are you?" I asked after a long moment.
She looked at me, a flicker of surprise in her dark eyes, followed by a quiet resignation. "I was a forensic accountant at Vance Logistics before the fire. Ewan and I... we were working together. When he didn't come home from Pier 44, I knew the uniform was the only way to get inside the lion's den without getting eaten."
I reached across the bed and placed my hand over hers—the hand with the splinted fingers. Her skin was warm, steady, real.
"You're staying," I said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. "When this is over, when the dust settles and my mother is resting easy, you aren't leaving this house."
May you like
Delia held my gaze, neither pulling away nor leaning in, her eyes searching mine for any trace of the old monster I used to be. "Is that an order, Mr. Vance?"
"No," I replied, my voice softening as the storm outside finally began to quiet. "It's a promise."
