Chapter 4 - The File on the DeskTwo weeks later, the medical team cleared me for private transport.
I was moved from St. Catherine Medical Center in an armored six-car convoy to the Rossi Estate—a sprawling, fortress-like mansion perched on the high bluffs of Long Island, surrounded by ten-foot stone walls, security gates, and armed patrols.
I was given a massive, sunlit suite on the second floor, complete with a private balcony, a fireplace, and a dedicated medical team that monitored my recovery daily.
Dominic was a constant, silent shadow in my new life. He ate breakfast with me every morning, ensured my medications were administered on time, and handled his syndicate operations from his ground-floor library. Yet despite his absolute protection, a deep, unsettling intuition kept me awake at night.
He had paid my mother’s multi-hundred-thousand-dollar medical bills within hours of my shooting. He had transferred her to a private clinic in Cleveland without asking for her medical records.
How did a Manhattan crime boss know where my mother was hospitalized before I even woke up from surgery?
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, while Dominic was away at a high-level summit with the waterfront union leaders, I walked slowly down the grand mahogany staircase, using a wooden cane to support my recovering right leg.
The estate was unusually quiet. The guards were posted outside along the perimeter, leaving the marble hallways silent save for the pitter-patter of rain against the high arched windows.
I pushed open the heavy oak doors of Dominic’s private library.
The room smelled of old leather, cedarwood, and expensive cologne. A massive mahogany desk stood near the center, covered in neat stacks of financial ledgers, corporate documents, and security monitors.
I walked toward the desk, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Sitting right beside the central leather blotter was a thick Manila folder stamped with a red wax seal: CLARA ELLEN CARTER — CONFIDENTIAL AUDIT.
My hands trembled as I reached out, breaking the wax seal, and opened the folder.
Inside were high-definition photographs of me from two years ago—working at the diner, walking my mother to her clinic in Cleveland, even copies of my bank statements, my birth certificate, and my late father's corporate tax records.
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Attached to the front page was a sticky note in Dominic’s sharp, slanted handwriting, dated three months before the shooting at the Aster Crown Hotel:
Target identified. Keep under constant surveillance. Do not initiate contact until the Costa audit is complete.
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