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Since then, he’s been operating on four hours of sleep a night, espresso, and the vitamin supplements I left on his nightstand. He swallows them without complaint, as if he’s worried that fighting me on it would open the door to more sensitive queries, like where he’s been going every morning at six since Tuesday. He always leaves with Nico and returns every evening smelling of strange chemicals.

I’ve told myself repeatedly that I’m not concerned, but then I caught his schedule on the screen while he took a shower and discovered something even stranger than his current, obviously shady business. He has a recurring Thursday appointment. He regularly visits St. Catherine’s Children’s Hospital, labeled in his calendar only as a personal matter.

What gangster visits a children’s hospital like it’s part of an itinerary?

Because that question latches onto my mind and wouldn’t let go, I decided to follow him.

Now that I’m here, I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb in these halls. This hospital is a far cry from the cash-strapped Ashford County that’s been my world for a number of years now. Here, they host charity galas and manage numerous foundations created by people with deep pockets. I’ve seen some doctors and events from this hospital get a center spread in New York Magazine, and I know most of the donors have zip codes in the West Village and Tribeca.

The money part connects with Marco’s presence here. The underworld and obscenely rich people seem to always find a way to link up…but why do it in a children’s hospital?

Surely they can’t be running this place as a front for crime. There’s no doubt that Marco is unscrupulous, but I’d have thought him better than that, or else I don’t know the man at all.

I get the sense that I’m about to find out as I walk on, searching for any sign of him. Unlike the county hospital’s walls, which have needed a repaint for years, St. Catherine’s pediatric corridors bloom with murals of smiling giraffes and cartoon astronauts. Lavender diffusers soften the usual hospital astringency.

I wouldn’t associate this place with Marco Santori.

If I want to go deeper into the hospital, I need to look like I belong, so I pin my Ashford County badge to my jacket. It’s visible enough to survive a passing glance and too small to read from a distance.

I wait by the interior door, checking my phone like a doctor between pages until a nurse pushes through from the other side. I catch the door before it closes and slip through. The security guard at the desk glances up, his eyes flicking to the badge on my chest, and returns his attention to his monitors after a curt nod in my direction. He’s too far away to see that the name belongs to a doctor who works at a hospital fifteen miles away.

The corridor opens into a quiet waiting area, and a small placard beside the doors reads Pediatric Oncology. I take a seat among the scattered chairs, far enough from the nurses’ station to go unnoticed, close enough to watch the hallway Marco would have to use.

I find him in a rec room about ten minutes later.

I stop at the window, my heart skipping several beats. Marco stands in the center of the room wearing athletic shorts and a black t-shirt that reads “Future Champions” in bold white letters. Five children in varying stages of cancer treatment crowd around him. One has an IV line taped to her arm, and another sits in a wheelchair. Two of them carry that gray, hollow exhaustion I remember from my oncology rotation.

Marco demonstrates a kickboxing combination in exaggerated slow motion. While four of the kids laugh, the girl with a bald head and the IV taped to her arm stares at him in mild disapproval—the kind kids use when they’re mature beyond their years—then shakes her head.

He crouches to her eye level, grinning at her and whispering. In the two weeks I’ve known Marco, I’ve seen him bleeding, flirty, furious, silent, and dangerous. But I’ve never seen him like this. That open, boyish grin on his face is something that I’d never be able to imagine.

At the sight of his happy, simple expression, a crack ripples right through my chest and straight to my heart.

The buzzing phone in my pocket interrupts the moment. I ignore it, but it buzzes again, and with an exasperated breath, I drag it out to read a text preview from Jenna.

WHEN ARE YOU BACK?

Jenna is clearly worried that I’m not at the hospital, and I can’t blame her. In the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never missed a day, never taken a leave.

This isn’t the time to satisfy her curiosity.

I silence the phone and glance up in time to see Marco pull a foam training pad from a duffel bag and help the boy in the wheelchair position his hands.

He says a few words, holds up the pad, and nods at the boy, who punches the pad with unshaking concentration. Marco rocks back like he’s been struck by a heavyweight kickboxer. The boy’s face splits with laughter, and the others, including the girl with the IV in her arm, join in.

I should leave. I have what I came for, and even though it’s the last outcome I expected, the evidence of this version of Marco pins me in place.

Why would he spend time with them?

Common sense says it’s some kind of front for mafia business, but he looks genuinely committed, and the easy rapport he has with the kids can only be developed over time, not in one or two visits.

I’m still trying to make sense of it all when a hospital administrator enters the room carrying a clipboard, so I edge closer to the door to listen.

“Thank you, Mr. Santori.” She tugs the clipboard from under her arm and hands it to him. “We’ve ordered the new equipment for the occupational therapy suite.”

Marco signs without looking and gives it back. “Don’t put my name on anything.”

“We never do.” She smiles, pivots, and exits.