Chapter 2 - THE DEBT THAT HAD MY NAME ON IT
“Tell me how much you owe, Faith. Because whoever you're protecting is already using you.”
The sponge slipped from her fingers.
For the first time since she'd entered my mansion, the woman who had stood up to my temper looked ready to run.
“That's none of your business.”
I glanced toward the hallway.
“Carmine. Close the door.”
My security chief hesitated before obeying.
Faith stood beside my wheelchair, her cheap uniform stained with coffee. She looked exhausted.
But exhaustion wasn't what frightened her.
It was something inside that folded eviction notice.
“I'm not offering charity,” I said. “I'm asking a question.”
“Four thousand eight hundred dollars.”
“For rent?”
“Three months behind. Late fees. Everything.”
I watched her carefully.
“And who's collecting?”
She folded her arms.
“My landlord.”
“Name.”
“Mr. Haskins.”
I knew the name.
Haskins managed residential buildings for Harbor Property Management, a company connected to one of my business partners.
Adrian Vale.
The thought made something tighten in my chest.
Adrian had handled most of my shipping operations since the accident. He visited twice a week, brought financial reports I rarely read, and reminded me how fortunate I was that someone trustworthy still ran my empire.
For fifteen years, I had believed Carmine was the most loyal man in my life.
For twelve, I'd believed Adrian was the smartest.
Lately, I wasn't certain about either.
“Show me the notice,” I said.
Faith stepped backward.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't need you buying my problems so you can own me afterward.”
That landed harder than I expected.
Before the accident, plenty of people had accepted my money without asking where it came from.
Faith was the first person in months who seemed more afraid of owing me than of losing everything.
I lowered my voice.
“Who else is involved?”
Her eyes moved toward the door.
Then she reached into her pocket.
The notice was wrinkled from being folded too many times.
At the bottom was a printed line.
Payment arrangements administered by Harbor Recovery Services.
Underneath it appeared an authorization number.
And a name.
Dominic Carter.
My name.
I read it twice.
“What the hell is this?”
Faith studied my face.
“You really don't know?”
“No.”
“Your company bought my debt three weeks ago.”
I looked up.
“Why?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Faith made a decision.
She reached beneath her collar and pulled out a silver wristwatch hanging from a thin chain.
The face was cracked.
Both hands had stopped at 2:17.
“My father owned this,” she said.
Something about the watch disturbed me.
I had seen it before.
Not in a photograph.
Not in a file.
Somewhere much worse.
“Who was your father?”
“Samuel Willis.”
The name struck me like another collision.
Six months earlier, Samuel Willis had been a mechanic working nights at my South Branch freight terminal.
After my accident, his name appeared in the investigation.
The official report claimed he'd tampered with my convoy's braking system.
Ten days later, he died in a garage fire.
The case closed.
I remembered that much.
But I also remembered something the report never mentioned.
A man in orange work gloves dragging me across wet pavement.
His hands were bleeding.
He kept shouting for someone to call an ambulance.
And on his wrist—
A silver watch.
I looked at Faith.
“Your father was at the scene.”
She nodded.
“He called me that morning.”
“What did he say?”
“That something terrible had happened. That he needed to explain before somebody else told the story for him.”
Her voice became unsteady.
“He never made it home.”
I stared at the watch.
Six months of memories I'd tried to bury began pushing back.
The crushed windshield.
Gasoline.
Blood inside my mouth.
A man begging me to stay awake.
Then another voice.
A voice ordering someone to get the mechanic away.
I gripped my wheelchair.
“Why did you come here?”
Faith didn't answer immediately.
Finally, she said, “Because everybody told me my father tried to murder you.”
“And?”
“Because he wouldn't have.”
Her chin trembled.
“He fixed people's cars for free when they couldn't afford repairs. He kept blankets in his truck for homeless people. He taught my daughter how to change a tire before she learned her multiplication tables.”
“Your daughter?”
“Maya. She's eight.”
I glanced at the eviction notice again.
“Where is she?”
“With our neighbor, Mrs. Flores. Until I get off work.”
Faith swallowed.
“She thinks we're moving because the apartment needs repairs.”
Something ugly moved through me.
I'd spent six months making strangers miserable because I couldn't stand my own suffering.
Meanwhile, the woman I'd been tormenting was trying to keep her child from knowing they might become homeless.
“Why didn't you tell Mrs. Gable any of this?”
“She knows about Maya. Not about my father.”
“Why hide it?”
“Because I needed the job.”
She looked directly at me.
“And because I wanted to see the man my father supposedly tried to kill.”
I didn't know which accusation hurt more.
“You thought I ordered his death.”
“I didn't know what to think.”
She wiped her eyes quickly.
“Then I saw you yesterday. Angry, hurting, trying to make everyone else hurt because you couldn't stop yours.”
I turned toward the window.
“Be careful.”
“Why? Because the truth makes you uncomfortable?”
Nobody had spoken to me that way in years.
And somehow, I couldn't tell her to stop.
A sharp spasm tightened my right leg.
Faith noticed immediately.
“Your foot is turning inward.”
“I'm fine.”
“No, you're not.”
She reached toward my leg, then stopped.
“May I?”
It was such a small question.
But after six months of being treated like damaged property, it mattered.
I nodded.
She helped position my foot against the support.
“Your doctors should know these spasms are getting worse.”
“They said I might never walk again.”
“That doesn't mean you're supposed to spend every day in pain.”
I looked at her.
“You always argue this much?”
“Only when somebody's being stubborn.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Then Carmine opened the door.
“Boss, Adrian's office just called. They want your signature on the updated management agreement.”
“Tell them no.”
Carmine looked surprised.
“Dominic—”
“I said no.”
Faith collected her cleaning supplies.
“I should go.”
“Faith.”
She stopped.
“You'll have a job here Friday. And Saturday. And every day after that, unless you decide otherwise.”
She studied me suspiciously.
“Why?”
“Because I'm tired of people making decisions without telling me.”
After she left, I turned toward Carmine.
“Pull everything we have on Samuel Willis.”
He didn't move.
“Carmine.”
“Boss, that case was closed.”
“Open it.”
His face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The color drained from his cheeks.
“You don't want to do this,” he said.
I stared at the man who had stood beside me through shootings, funerals, betrayals, and wars.
“Why?”
He looked toward the hallway, where Faith's footsteps were fading.
Then he walked across the room and shut the door again.
“Because Samuel Willis didn't sabotage your vehicle.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Then who did?”
Carmine swallowed.
“I don't know.”
“Don't lie to me.”
His voice dropped.
“Samuel was the man who pulled you from the wreckage. He found something before the ambulance arrived.”
“What?”
“Evidence that the attack came from inside our own organization.”
I felt the room tilt.
“Why wasn't that in the report?”
Carmine couldn't meet my eyes.
“Because somebody paid to make sure it disappeared.”
“Who?”
He hesitated.
Then he said something that made the blood drain from my face.
“I took Samuel Willis away from that road alive, Dominic.”
My fingers tightened around the armrests.
“Where did you take him?”
Carmine finally looked at me.
May you like
“To Adrian Vale.”
And for the first time since the accident, I realized the man running my empire might also be the man who had arranged to destroy me.
