Chapter 11 - The Mechanic
The private town car sped through the darkness.
It was 4:00 AM by the time we reached the quiet, tree-lined street of the assisted living facility. Roman hadn’t let me go alone. He sat beside me in the backseat, tense and silent.
My stomach was tied in knots. My father was frail. He had mild dementia. If someone had come looking for him…
The car stopped. Roman and I practically jumped out before the driver could open the doors.
We ran into the lobby. The night nurse looked up, startled.
“Ms. Walsh? What are you doing here so late?”
“Is my father okay?” I asked breathlessly.
“He’s fast asleep in room 12,” she said, confused. “Has been since nine.”
I let out a sob of relief, covering my face. Roman exhaled a sharp breath, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
“We need to see him,” Roman told the nurse.
We walked quietly down the sterile hallway. I gently pushed open the door to room 12.
My father was asleep in his armchair, a blanket draped over his lap. The television was on mute, playing an old western.
I knelt beside his chair. “Dad?”
He stirred, blinking his eyes open. He smiled when he saw me, though his eyes were clouded with confusion.
“Norie,” he rasped. “What time is it?”
“It’s late, Dad,” I said, taking his rough, calloused hand. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
He looked past me, noticing the tall, imposing man in the tailored suit standing in the doorway.
My father’s eyes widened. The fog of dementia seemed to vanish instantly, replaced by a sharp, terrifying clarity.
“Mr. Bellini,” my father whispered.
Roman stepped fully into the room. “Hello, Thomas. You recognize me?”
“You look just like your father,” my dad said, his voice trembling. He looked down at his hands. “I knew this day would come. I knew the debt would eventually come due.”
“Dad, what debt?” I asked.
My father looked at me, tears welling in his tired eyes.
“Nora, I lied to you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I wasn’t a mechanic when you were born. I drove cars for the Bellini family.”
“I know, Dad,” I said gently. “I saw the photograph. I know you took Carlo’s criminal record.”
My father shook his head vigorously.
“No, Nora. You don’t understand,” he said, grabbing my arm. “I didn’t do it for money.”
Roman frowned, stepping closer. “My father’s ledgers showed a massive payout to you in 1996. The same week Carlo avoided prison.”
“He didn’t pay me in cash,” my father said, tears spilling down his cheeks. He looked at Roman. “Your father paid the hospital bills.”
I froze. “What hospital bills?”
“Yours, Nora,” my father sobbed. “You were born with a severe heart defect. My insurance wouldn’t cover the surgery. You had weeks to live. I went to your father, Roman. I begged him for a loan.”
My father wiped his eyes.
“He told me Carlo had just run down a pedestrian. He said if I took the fall, if I gave Carlo my name for the conviction, he would bring in the best pediatric surgeon in the country to save your life.”
I couldn’t breathe. I touched my chest, right over the faint, silver scar I’d had since infancy. I had always been told it was a routine childhood surgery.
“You sold your name to save my life,” I whispered.
“I would do it a thousand times,” my father cried.
Roman stared at the old man, his stern mafia exterior completely crumbling. He was looking at a father who had sacrificed everything for his daughter—a stark contrast to Victoria, who had thrown her daughter away for money.
Roman walked over and knelt beside my father’s chair.
“Thomas,” Roman said quietly. “You don’t owe my family a debt. My family owes you.”
Roman took my father’s hand.
“Carlo is going to prison tonight,” Roman said. “I’m going to have my lawyers clear your name. You’re getting your identity back. And you’re not staying in this facility anymore.”
My father looked up, stunned. “Where will I go?”
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Roman looked at me, his dark eyes softening in a way I had never seen before.
“You’re coming home with us,” Roman said.
