Paying My Father's Debt

Chapter 19:

Mary gripped William’s hand tightly, grounding herself in the heat of his skin. He was alive. Weak, barely conscious — but alive. That was all that mattered right now.

His fingers twitched around hers, a rough exhale slipping from his throat. “What was that noise?” he rasped, eyelids fluttering again.

Mary hesitated. The bruise on her cheek throbbed. She could feel the blood still trickling from her nose, thick and slow.

“It was nothing,” she said gently, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Don’t worry about it.”

His eyes sharpened, if only for a second. “Mary,” he said, voice harder. “Don’t lie to me.”

She stiffened.

But before she could reply, he blinked — saw the red streak across her face — and his jaw clenched.

Mary quickly leaned back, masking the damage with her sleeve. “You’re still healing,” she said, standing too fast. “I’ll get the nurse.”

She slipped out of the room just as the door creaked again — not a nurse.

Don Millefiore entered in a crisp suit, flanked by his usual quiet shadows. In his arms, he carried a bouquet of lilies, enormous and blindingly white against the backdrop of cold hospital gray.

“Thought I’d pay my respects,” he said smoothly.

Mary took a breath and nodded. “He’s awake.”

The Don’s eyes flicked past her toward the door. He handed her the bouquet, and with a glance toward the hallway, gestured for the staff. Moments later, nurses rushed past, voices rising with urgency as they saw William’s vitals stabilize, their hands moving fast.

Mary stayed behind with the Don. Alone.

She clutched the bouquet awkwardly, the sweet scent turning her stomach.

“Did you know anything?” the Don asked, voice soft, almost curious. “About the shooting.”

Mary froze. “No.”

He nodded once. Slow. Measured.

Then his hand snapped out and grabbed her wrist. Hard. Pain surged through her arm. The bouquet hit the floor.

He leaned in close, his face an inch from hers, the weight of his voice suddenly like iron.

“My wife and children were at that wedding,” he said. “My grandchildren. So if you’re lying to me, Mary, I won’t have one of my men do the questioning. I’ll do it myself. And I’ll make sure you’re still breathing when it happens.”

Her breath caught. Her entire body went still.

“I swear,” she whispered. “I don’t know anything.”

His gaze searched hers for too long, until the silence stretched like a blade between them.

Then he let her go.

She stumbled back, chest heaving.

He smiled faintly. “Too many grievances for a pretty girl like you today.”

Without another word, he stepped past her and pushed open the hospital door.

Inside, William was already halfway out of bed, teeth grit against the pain, one hand gripping the IV pole like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Nurses flanked him, pleading, their panic mounting.

“Mr. Flanagan—please, your stitches—”

“I need to go home,” he said, voice hoarse but unshakable. “I need to be where she is.”

Blood had already soaked through the fresh bandages at his side, but he didn’t care. His body was betraying him, but his will hadn’t broken.

The Don laughed, stepping forward. “That’s my boy.”

Mary stood frozen in the doorway, watching him — this man who’d shielded her with his body, taken a bullet to the chest, and was now trying to stand on shattered ribs just to get back to her.

She didn’t know what that was.

Obsession. Duty. Love.

But it was real.