Chapter 4 The Door He Locked

Mia

I didn't take Nico's car. I also didn't take Dante's car. I went out through the back door of the private club, walked six blocks along the rain-soaked streets before hailing a taxi. The driver asked where I was going, I gave him a hotel address, then changed my mind before the car pulled out: "Port Authority."

The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror: "Now?"

"Now," I said.

I wanted to go back to Philadelphia. Wanted to throw that key card down a drain, wanted to dig Dante Moretti's name out of my brain, wanted to return to that small apartment with broken heating. Even if wind leaked through the window cracks, even if only half a bottle of milk was left in the fridge, even if my mother's bills pressed down so hard I couldn't breathe when I woke up each day. At least that was my place.

Blackthorn House wasn't. Moretti money wasn't. Dante's protection definitely wasn't. Halfway through the ride, my phone rang. Not Dante, not Nico either, it was Saint Agnes Hospital. The nurse kept her voice low: "Miss Hayes, your mother's treatment deposit has arrived, but a transfer application has also been submitted simultaneously. Can you confirm this?"

I sat up straight: "What transfer?"

The nurse lowered her voice on the other end: "Blackthorn Holdings has applied to transfer Ms. Evelyn Hayes to New York Presbyterian private ward. The medical team will hand over tonight."

My fingers grew cold bit by bit, the phone edge digging into my palm.

"Who signed it?" I stared at my reflection in the car window, voice kept very low.

There was two seconds of silence on the other end, like confirming whether to continue: "There's a guarantor signature on the document."

"The name."

The nurse's voice got even quieter: "Dante Moretti." The taxi's heater was obviously running full blast, but my back felt like ice had been pressed against it. I hung up and immediately called Dante. He answered quickly, so quickly it seemed like he'd been waiting.

"You're moving my mother?" I skipped all pleasantries.

There was a very brief silence on the other end. When Dante spoke, his tone was so calm it made me want to smash things even more: "I'm saving her."

"You have no right to decide for me."

"You can't afford her surgery tonight," he replied even colder.

I was blocked from saying a single word. Poor people's dignity is sometimes very thin, one bill can puncture it. What was more ridiculous was that he was telling the truth. I gritted my teeth, almost squeezing out a sentence through my teeth: "Withdraw the application."

Dante didn't hesitate: "No."

"Dante." I called his name, whether as warning or pleading, even I couldn't tell.

His end went quiet for a moment. I heard a very light sound of a lighter clicking, but didn't hear him smoking. After a few seconds, he said word by word: "Return to Blackthorn House. Tonight."

I closed my eyes. "What if I don't?"

The sound of the lighter cap closing was very light. Dante only replied with four words: "You can try."

The call ended. The driver asked: "Still going to the station?"

I looked out the window. New York's night lights pressed down layer by layer. I sat in the back seat for a long time, finally saying: "Upper East Side. Blackthorn House." The driver didn't ask a second time.

Half an hour later, the car stopped in front of that black iron gate. Five years ago when I left from here it was also a rainy night. Back then I wore a white dress nobody wanted, ankles scraped, clutching a one-way ticket in my hand. Someone told me, don't look back. I really didn't look back then. Now I stood in front of the same door, still holding the key card Dante had given me. The card surface was ice cold, painful against my palm.

The door opened from inside. Elena stood behind it. She was a bit older than five years ago, hair pulled back tightly, but her eyes were still soft. When she saw me, her eyes reddened slightly, her voice also softened: "Miss Hayes."

That address made my throat tighten.

"Don't call me that," I said.

"Then Mia?" she asked carefully.

I nodded slightly. She stepped aside. Inside the house was laid with black and white marble, the fireplace burning brightly, the air smelling of cedar and old wood. Everything was so expensive it made people afraid to touch, even pain seemed inappropriate here. I followed Elena upstairs.

"I'm only staying one night," I said.

She didn't respond. People in this house knew when to stay quiet. At the end of the second floor corridor was the room I had lived in five years ago. The moment the door opened, I stopped. White curtains, light gray bedsheets, a small desk by the window. There was even an old sketchbook on the desk. Mine. I thought it had been thrown away long ago.

I walked over and opened the first page. A photo was tucked inside. Me from that old affair, wearing a cheap white dress, standing in the corner of a Moretti family banquet, head down drawing. The photo was taken from far away, clearly shot from behind the second floor railing.

My fingers froze. This wasn't a media photo. It also wasn't an angle a banquet photographer would take. Someone had been watching me. Had been watching for a very long time. Footsteps came from the doorway. I didn't turn around. Dante's voice sounded behind me: "Your mother will be transferred to New York within two hours."

I crumpled the photo.

"This photo," I stared at the girl with her head down drawing on the paper, "did you take it?"

He didn't answer immediately. The silence was enough.

I turned around and threw the photo at him. The paper corner grazed his suit front, then was caught by him.

"Exactly how many years have you been watching me?"

Dante looked down at the crumpled photo. The light cast his eyelash shadows very deep, I couldn't tell if he had any guilt.

"Since you first stepped into this house," his voice was very low.

I laughed once, the laugh making my throat hurt.

"So now I can't leave either?" I raised my eyes.

Dante put the crumpled photo back on the desk, his movement gentle, like it wasn't evidence, just an old item that should have been returned to its place long ago.

My phone vibrated just then. New York Presbyterian sent a transfer confirmation, Evelyn Hayes, private ward seventeenth floor, accompanying items list had been created. The bottom line read temporary medical guarantor: Dante Moretti. The memo also had a sentence, Evelyn agreed to transfer when conscious, Saint Agnes retains original signature.

Not me.

I held the screen up to his face, fingertips almost pinching the phone edge painfully. "You even filled this out for her?"

Dante glanced at it, didn't deny it. "The hospital needed someone who could sign immediately."

"She has a daughter."

"Her daughter was just about to leave New York."

The heating in the room was too much, hot enough to make one nauseous. He didn't scold me, didn't raise his voice, just pushed the phone in front of me. On the screen was my mother's room number, transfer application, payment countdown, three things arranged clearly.

"You save people like it's kidnapping," I said.

"Call it whatever you want," Dante's gaze fell back on my face, "but she'll be alive tonight."

That sentence blocked me from making any sound. Half an hour ago, the taxi driver was still waiting for me to say something, asking if I was really going to Port Authority. I did want to leave then, and almost said it out loud. If the hospital called now asking me to sign, I would sign too. The difference was just that he took the pen away first.

I looked down at my phone, reopened the hospital's transfer confirmation. Under the authorization page was a string of small numbers, BH-17F-EH. Blackthorn House, seventeenth floor, Evelyn Hayes. After the number were temporary visiting rules, family members cannot enter private ward without appointment. I read word by word, getting colder the more I read. Dante hadn't locked me in a room, he had put my mother into a set of rules I couldn't reach.

"The door is open," Dante withdrew his hand from the door handle.

I walked past him, reached out to turn the handle. The door didn't move. I tried again, still locked. I slapped the key card on the reader, a red light flashed, the screen showed Access denied. Those two English words were more glaring than the lock bolt. Dante didn't even raise his hand, but I understood: he hadn't forgotten to give me access, he had specifically let me try it myself once.

The two security guards at the other end of the corridor lowered their eyes, like they saw nothing. Dante walked behind me, lowered his head close.

"Mia," his voice fell next to my ear, "every lock in this house listens to me."