Six months after a bullet paralyzed Vincent Corvino, his fiancée stopped seeing him as a man—but the maid who cared for him discovered something beneath his mattress that could expose who really wanted him dead. / Chapter 4 / 59

Chapter 4 - The Price of Twenty-Five Dollars

The silence in the bedroom grew heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of the alternating-pressure mattress shifting air chambers beneath Vincent’s torso.

“You need to get out of here, Tessa,” Vincent said abruptly, his voice losing its harsh edge and dropping into something surprisingly gentle.

Tessa blinked, caught off guard. “What? Why? I’m not finished with your morning routine. You still need your passive range-of-motion exercises, and—”

“Listen to me,” Vincent interrupted, leaning forward against his pillows, his broad shoulders straining. “If Dominic Calvo or any of his men come back to this house before noon today—and they will, because Lauren called him about the harbor papers—they aren’t going to knock. They’re going to search this room. And if they find you here holding an active copy of Marco Rossi’s hidden bank records, they won't just fire you from the agency.”

“They’ll think I’m part of whatever war is going on,” Tessa finished quietly. She didn't flinch. She didn't drop her gaze. Instead, she stood up slowly from her kneeling position, brushing a stray lock of brown hair out of her eyes. “Mr. Corvino, how much does the agency pay me?”

Vincent frowned at the sudden shift in topic. “Thirty-five an hour. The agency takes ten. You get twenty-five.”

“Right,” Tessa said, crossing her arms over her simple navy uniform. “And out of that twenty-five dollars an hour, after taxes, rent in Brighton Park, groceries, and insulin supplies for my sixteen-year-old sister, my monthly savings balance is exactly zero dollars.”

She stepped closer to the edge of the bed, looking down at the powerful, ruined man resting upon the white sheets.

“My sister’s insulin pump costs four hundred dollars a week out-of-pocket because the state insurance cap ran out last month,” Tessa continued, her voice steady, hard, and devoid of self-pity. “Do you know what happens when you’re broke in Chicago, Mr. Corvino? You learn real quick that danger is just another kind of weather. It rains on everyone, but if you don't have an umbrella, you drown.”

Vincent stared at her, stunned. For six months, everyone who walked into this room—doctors with clipboards, physical therapists with bright, patronizing smiles, and fiancée Lauren with her designer handbags and cold perfume—had treated him like a fragile piece of antique porcelain that might shatter if someone breathed too hard.

Tessa Morgan was looking at him like he was a tool she needed to finish a job.

“You have iron in you, girl,” Vincent murmured, a slow, approving rumble building in his chest.

“I have rent to pay,” Tessa corrected dryly. She reached down, picked up the ledger and the photographs, and slipped them deftly into the large front pocket of her navy work tunic. “And if you want to keep living long enough to figure out who put these under your mattress, you’re going to need someone who can walk around this house without anyone suspecting she’s carrying your defense fund.”

Before Vincent could reply, a sharp, clear sound echoed from the bottom of the grand staircase downstairs.

The heavy oak front door opened.

Heels clicked against the marble foyer floor.

“Vince?” Lauren’s voice drifted up the stairwell, light, musical, and completely artificial. “Dominic’s here with the papers! And honey, you’ll never guess what we decided about the catering for the reception!”