Chapter 7 - The One Person He Asked For
Vincent survived six hours of surgery.
Norah spent every one of them in the waiting room.
Matteo paced.
Daniel sat beside Liam.
Khloe remained with her mother.
Nobody mentioned that Norah’s hands were still stained with Vincent’s blood.
At 7:08 a.m., the surgeon entered.
“He’s stable.”
Norah closed her eyes.
The relief frightened her.
Matteo noticed.
He said nothing.
Two days later, Vincent woke.
His first word was not Matteo.
Not Richard.
Not business.
“Norah.”
She was asleep in a chair beside the window.
Matteo smiled.
“I’ll get her.”
Norah woke when someone touched her shoulder.
She approached the bed.
Vincent looked pale and exhausted.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“So do you.”
She laughed through tears.
“Good morning.”
“What happened?”
“Richard is in federal custody. Tommy too. The explosives were recovered. Liam is safe. Daniel is cooperating.”
Vincent watched her.
“And you?”
“I’m apparently a billionaire.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“You have no idea.”
His mouth curved.
Then Norah became serious.
“You almost died.”
“I’ve done that before.”
“I haven’t.”
Vincent understood what she meant.
He reached for her hand.
She let him take it.
That was the beginning.
Not a kiss.
Not a declaration.
A hand held beside a hospital bed.
Outside, the world was changing.
Richard Davenport was charged with conspiracy, attempted murder, financial crimes, extortion and multiple offenses connected to the Vitiello organization.
The Davenport board suspended him.
Norah’s ownership claim became impossible to hide.
Reporters camped outside Laura.
WAITRESS SAVES BILLIONAIRE CRIME FIGURE, one headline announced inaccurately.
MYSTERY HEIRESS CONTROLS SHIPPING EMPIRE, another declared.
Norah hated both.
“What do I do?” she asked Daniel.
“With the company?”
“With everything.”
“You decide.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s something nobody let you do before.”
The answer stayed with her.
Three weeks later, Vincent left the hospital.
Norah expected their strange connection to disappear once the danger ended.
It did not.
He called her that evening.
“Dinner.”
“That sounds like an order.”
“It was intended as an invitation.”
“Try again.”
Silence.
Then, with exaggerated patience, “Norah Hayes, would you have dinner with me?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I need to check my schedule.”
“You’re unemployed.”
“I’m a shipping magnate.”
Vincent laughed.
Friday night, he arrived at her apartment carrying no security entourage inside.
Norah opened the door.
“You own suits that aren’t charcoal?”
“No.”
“Disturbing.”
He held out flowers.
Not roses.
Daisies.
She stared.
“How did you know?”
“Liam.”
“Traitor.”
Their first dinner was not at Laura.
Norah refused.
Instead, they ate pizza at a tiny restaurant in Brooklyn where nobody recognized Vincent.
For two hours, they discussed almost nothing about crime.
Vincent told her about studying architecture before his older cousin was murdered and family obligations dragged him home.
Norah told him she once wanted to become a teacher.
“You still can.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“That is generally considered young.”
She smiled.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you want if nobody needs Vincent Russo to be Vincent Russo?”
He had no answer.
That question changed him.
Over the next two months, Vincent began accelerating the transition his organization had already started years earlier.
Illegal operations were shut down.
Predatory loans disappeared.
Businesses connected to extortion were separated from Russo holdings.
Matteo complained constantly.
“You’re making us boring.”
“I’m trying to make us legal.”
“Boring.”
Norah refused to become Vincent’s moral excuse.
“If you change,” she told him, “change because you mean it. Not because you want me.”
“I do want you.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
And he did.
Meanwhile, Norah joined Davenport Shipping’s board.
Her first meeting was brutal.
Older executives looked at her uniform history and saw weakness.
One director, Malcolm Pierce, smiled condescendingly.
“With respect, Miss Hayes, serving cocktails hardly prepares someone to manage international logistics.”
Norah opened a folder.
“With respect, Mr. Pierce, embezzling $4.7 million from fuel contracts hardly prepares someone to lecture me about management.”
The room went silent.
Malcolm turned white.
Norah smiled.
“Security is waiting outside.”
Vincent heard about it later.
He looked delighted.
“You enjoyed that.”
“A little.”
“A lot.”
“Fine. A lot.”
Their relationship deepened slowly.
Then one evening, three months after the shooting, Vincent took Norah back to Laura.
The damaged dining room had been restored.
They stood beside the same table.
Norah touched the chair.
“This is weird.”
“I wanted to replace the memory.”
“With what?”
Vincent stepped closer.
“This.”
He kissed her.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Norah’s hand rested against his chest.
When they separated, she whispered, “That was dangerously confident.”
“I had evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“You stopped breathing.”
She laughed.
Then Matteo entered.
His expression killed the moment.
“Vincent.”
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
Matteo handed him an envelope.
Inside was a photograph taken that afternoon.
It showed Norah leaving Davenport headquarters.
A red circle had been drawn around her.
Exactly like the photograph of Liam.
May you like
On the back were five words.
RICHARD DAVENPORT WAS NOT THE BOSS.
