Chapter 9 - THE LAST PERSON THEY TRUSTED
Dr. Elliot Pierce had treated Eli and Noah since birth.
He had stood beside Simon in the neonatal intensive care unit.
He had explained their tremors.
He had reassured him.
He had prescribed the medication now suspected of prolonging their symptoms.
And he had disappeared.
Simon blamed himself.
Natasha refused to let him.
“You hired specialists.”
“I hired the man hurting them.”
“You trusted a doctor.”
“I should've known.”
“That sentence destroys people.”
Simon looked at her.
She understood because she had lived inside the same sentence for years.
I should have known.
About Sophie.
About her father.
About everything.
Natasha took his hand.
“Knowing afterward isn't the same as knowing before.”
That evening, an alert sounded.
Someone had entered the building using Pierce's medical credentials.
Simon reached the nursery.
Pierce was already there.
He stood beside the twins with a syringe.
Natasha's blood went cold.
“Put it down.”
Pierce smiled sadly.
“You were supposed to be a waitress.”
“I get that a lot.”
Simon stepped forward.
Pierce raised the syringe over Eli.
“One more step.”
Simon stopped.
Natasha watched Pierce’s hands.
They were shaking.
Not with fear.
Withdrawal.
“He's using,” she said.
Pierce looked at her.
“You don't know anything.”
“Vale supplied you.”
Silence.
“Crestwood owned you because of it.”
Pierce's jaw tightened.
Natasha continued.
“You hurt children because he threatened to expose you.”
“I never wanted children hurt.”
“But they were.”
Pierce looked down at Eli.
His grip loosened slightly.
Natasha tapped her fingers against the crib rail.
Three beats.
Eli's eyes turned toward her.
Pierce noticed.
“He likes that.”
“They both do.”
“I delivered them.”
His voice cracked.
“I know.”
“I kept them alive.”
“And then you kept them sick.”
Pierce closed his eyes.
That was enough.
Simon moved.
He seized Pierce's wrist.
The syringe fell.
Marcus rushed in and restrained the doctor.
Pierce did not fight.
He simply collapsed.
The syringe was tested.
It contained enough medication to send an infant into respiratory failure.
Pierce confessed.
With his testimony and Crestwood's recordings, prosecutors dismantled the network.
Hospitals opened investigations.
Families whose complaints had been ignored finally received answers.
Anthony resigned from Gambino Health Holdings and placed the company under independent oversight.
And Natasha received something she had stopped believing she deserved.
A letter from Sophie's mother.
Simon gave it to her one morning.
Natasha opened it with shaking hands.
Mrs. Bennett had learned the truth.
She wrote that she had never blamed Natasha.
She remembered how Sophie smiled whenever Natasha brought her guitar.
She remembered her daughter calling therapy days her favorite days.
Natasha cried before reaching the final paragraph.
Simon held her.
This time she did not apologize for crying.
Weeks passed.
Eli and Noah improved.
The tremors became less frequent.
They slept longer.
They laughed more.
One afternoon, Noah made a strange sound while Simon attempted the rhythmic exercise.
Natasha froze.
Simon frowned.
“What?”
Noah did it again.
A laugh.
Eli followed.
Simon stared at them.
Then at Natasha.
“They're laughing at me.”
“They've developed excellent judgment.”
Simon narrowed his eyes.
She laughed.
He pulled her against him.
For the first time, the nursery sounded like a home.
Then Natasha remembered something.
“My thirty days ended.”
Simon went still.
“You counted?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
She pretended to consider.
“The employer is controlling.”
“Accurate.”
“Terrible interpersonal skills.”
“I've been told.”
“Questionable associates.”
“Also accurate.”
“Two extremely demanding clients.”
Simon looked toward the twins.
“Those are nonnegotiable.”
Natasha smiled.
Simon reached into his pocket.
Her smile disappeared.
He held a small velvet box.
“Simon.”
“Before you panic, this isn't what you think.”
He opened it.
Inside was not a ring.
It was a key.
“To what?”
“Something I bought.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“If it's another penthouse—”
“It isn't.”
“Restaurant?”
“No.”
“Island?”
“Natasha.”
“What?”
“A clinic.”
She stopped.
Simon handed her the key.
“A pediatric neurological music therapy center.”
Her eyes filled.
“You bought me a clinic?”
“No.”
His answer surprised her.
“I funded one. It belongs to a nonprofit board. You can work there if you want. Or don't. You don't owe me anything.”
That mattered more than the building.
He had learned.
Love was not ownership.
Protection was not control.
Natasha closed her fingers around the key.
Then Simon added:
“There is one thing I want.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow night. Dinner. No guards at the table.”
“Impossible.”
“Mostly no guards.”
“Better.”
“And afterward, I need to ask you something.”
Natasha glanced at his pocket.
This time she saw the unmistakable outline of another small box.
Her heart jumped.
“Simon Gambino, what exactly are you planning?”
May you like
For once, the most feared man in New York looked nervous.
“You'll find out tomorrow.”
