Chapter 4 - I WALKED AWAY FROM VINCENT HALE AFTER SAVING HIS LIFE—THEN ONE YEAR LATER, I SAW CHICAGO’S MOST FEARED MAN SITTING ALONE IN MY EMERGENCY ROOM WITH BLOOD ON HIS SHIRT
I returned to nursing at thirty-two.
My first shift nearly destroyed me.
The smell.
Antiseptic.
Plastic curtains.
Monitors.
Everything brought Robert Keller back.
I stood in a supply room and cried for four minutes.
Then washed my face.
Returned.
Finished twelve hours.
The second shift was easier.
The hundredth felt like home.
Not the old home.
A new one.
I became an emergency nurse again.
Later, I began additional training in toxicology response.
Apparently almost getting poisoned gives a person interests.
Arthur opened a small restaurant after cooperating with prosecutors.
Daniel entered gambling treatment.
Arthur's daughter finished high school.
Sometimes people did survive terrible choices.
That didn't erase consequences.
It simply meant consequences didn't have to be the final chapter.
I didn't see Vincent for eleven months.
I saw his name.
Headlines.
Hale Logistics Restructures.
Vincent Hale Testifies in Northline Trial.
Federal Settlement Reached.
Hale Foundation Funds Hospital Toxicology Program.
That last one irritated me.
I called him.
He answered.
"Molly."
"You funded my hospital."
"A program."
"Why?"
"They needed funding."
"Did you know I work there?"
"Yes."
"Vincent."
"I have donated to seven hospitals."
"Seven?"
"Would eight make it less suspicious?"
I laughed despite myself.
"Is my name anywhere?"
"No."
"Did you ask for influence?"
"No."
"Good."
"Anything else?"
I hesitated.
"How are you?"
Silence.
Then:
"Better."
"Good."
"You?"
"Better."
Neither of us said more.
Three weeks later, I was working overnight when paramedics brought in a man with a shoulder wound.
I pulled back the curtain.
Vincent Hale sat on the bed.
Blood on his white shirt.
I stopped.
He looked up.
"Molly."
"What happened?"
"Accident."
I stared.
"Try again."
"Glass."
"Better."
He had cut his shoulder helping a driver after a traffic collision.
No gunfight.
No assassination.
No dramatic conspiracy.
Just broken glass.
I cleaned the wound.
He watched me.
"You're wearing scrubs."
"Excellent observation."
"I haven't seen you in them."
"I haven't worn them around you."
"You look happy."
The words stopped me.
"I am."
"Good."
No jealousy.
No attempt to claim credit.
Just good.
I finished the dressing.
"You need stitches."
"Do them."
"I'm not the provider."
"Then find whoever is."
"Still bossy."
"Recovering."
I smiled.
After treatment, he stood.
"Coffee?"
I looked at him.
"As what?"
"Two people drinking coffee."
I raised an eyebrow.
"A date."
"Better."
"Is that a yes?"
I made him wait.
"Yes."
His expression changed.
For once, Vincent Hale looked completely unprepared.
"Tomorrow?"
"I'm working."
"Friday?"
"Class."
"Saturday?"
"Coffee."
He smiled.
"Saturday."
Coffee became dinner.
Dinner became another dinner.
Slowly.
Vincent had no idea how to date normally.
His first dinner reservation involved a private dining room and security closing half the restaurant.
I refused to enter.
He canceled everything.
We ate pizza.
His second attempt involved a car and driver.
I drove myself.
His third involved jewelry.
I returned it.
"Why?"
"Because it's date three."
"What is appropriate for date three?"
"Maybe dessert."
He bought cheesecake.
Progress.
I learned he loved old architecture.
Hated reality television.
Could cook exactly two meals.
Was terrified of hospitals despite pretending otherwise.
He learned I slept with a fan running in winter.
Collected cheap coffee mugs.
Hated lilies.
Loved baseball.
We argued.
Sometimes loudly.
But never fearfully.
That distinction meant everything.
Vincent's businesses became legitimate.
Not magically.
Not completely overnight.
He sold interests.
Closed operations.
Cooperated with investigations.
Lost friends.
Lost money.
Received threats.
He did it anyway.
One evening I asked why.
We were walking beside Lake Michigan.
"Because of you?"
He looked offended.
"No."
"Good answer."
He smiled.
"You influenced how I thought."
"Different."
"Very."
He stopped walking.
"I don't want you carrying responsibility for who I become."
My throat tightened.
"That's yours."
"Yes."
"And who I become is mine."
"Yes."
"Good."
We kept walking.
Two years after the poisoned dinner, Vincent proposed.
Not at a restaurant.
Absolutely not over food.
He learned.
We were in my apartment.
I had worked thirteen hours.
My hair looked terrible.
I was eating cereal.
He walked in carrying a box.
"No."
He stopped.
"I haven't done anything."
"That's a ring box."
"It could be earrings."
"Is it?"
"No."
I laughed.
He sat beside me.
Didn't kneel yet.
"Molly."
"Yes?"
"I spent most of my life believing protection was the same thing as love."
I put the cereal down.
"It isn't."
"I know."
He took my hand.
"Protection can be something you do for someone."
He paused.
"Love requires accepting they still belong to themselves afterward."
My eyes filled.
He knelt.
"I don't want you because you saved my life."
He opened the box.
A simple ring.
Beautiful.
"I want you because when my life was no longer in danger, you walked away until you knew coming back was your choice."
A tear slipped down my cheek.
"Molly Brennan, will you marry me?"
I looked at him.
"Do I keep working?"
"Yes."
"My own money?"
"Obviously."
"No security following me into the grocery store?"
He hesitated.
"Vincent."
"Fine."
"Was that painful?"
"Extremely."
I laughed.
Then became serious.
"If I say no?"
His face softened.
"I put the ring away."
"And?"
"We finish your terrible cereal."
I smiled.
"Then yes."
He blinked.
"Yes?"
"Yes."
May you like
For the first time since I'd known him, the most feared man in Chicago looked completely helpless.
I loved him for it.
