Chapter 8 - AFTER SUITE A
For three months, Daniel did not ask me to dinner again.
That may have been the first reason I eventually said yes.
He sent pictures of Leo.
Not constantly.
One every week or two.
Leo asleep with one fist beside his face.
Leo glaring at tummy time like gravity had personally offended him.
Leo wearing a knitted hat Miriam made.
No expensive gifts.
No invitations.
No pressure.
I replied when I wanted.
Sometimes with a heart.
Sometimes:
CHECK THE CAR-SEAT STRAPS.
Daniel responded:
I KNOW.
I wrote:
YOU CHECKED THEM FOUR TIMES IN THE HOSPITAL.
He replied:
FIVE.
Good.
Leo’s outpatient care stayed with pediatric and neonatal follow-up teams.
Not me.
That mattered.
I moved to a different NICU rotation permanently after my manager offered advanced preceptor training.
I almost refused because it meant extra coursework.
Then realized I was doing something strange.
Choosing difficulty because I wanted it.
Not because Michael needed money.
Not because Daniel needed help.
Not because a family crisis forced my hand.
I said yes.
Michael’s case moved too.
He pled guilty to theft from Anthony Duro’s illegal account and unauthorized computer access.
The bribery and gambling history complicated everything.
His cooperation in Camille’s homicide investigation helped.
It did not erase the conduct.
At sentencing, Michael received eight months in a community correction program followed by probation, restitution, and mandatory gambling treatment.
Not prison exactly.
Not freedom either.
He looked at me afterward.
“Are you disappointed?”
“Yes.”
His face fell.
I continued.
“And relieved.”
He blinked.
“Both.”
He almost smiled.
“I hate that word now.”
“Good.”
Michael had repaid forty dollars at a time until the court formalized restitution.
He kept doing it.
Not to me only.
To Duro’s seized-fund receiver? Better: to the restitution process. Good.
His new employer knew about the conviction.
That mattered.
No hidden second life.
Daniel’s world was less settled.
Marcus Vane took a plea after prosecutors showed him the route-sale records, payment trail, and his messages to Cole Rivas.
He admitted selling Camille’s route information knowing Rivas worked with violent men.
He continued to deny wanting anyone shot.
The prosecution did not accept that denial as a defense to the rest.
He pled to conspiracy, bribery, unlawful surveillance, and a serious homicide-related count based on knowingly facilitating the attack.
I did not memorize every statute.
Daniel did.
Of course.
Cole Rivas agreed to cooperate against the surviving shooter and others.
Luis Marron went to trial.
Elias Russo fought everything.
His attorneys argued he wanted Camille monitored but never harmed.
Evidence supported part of that.
It also showed he had paid Marcus after the route sale and had used fear around Camille’s movements to pressure Daniel into staying in old criminal alliances.
Did he know the route would be sold to armed rivals?
That became the central question.
The jury later convicted him of conspiracy, obstruction, unlawful surveillance, and financial crimes, while acquitting him on the most serious homicide count prosecutors had added after further evidence.
Daniel hated the acquittal.
I thought it mattered.
A court refusing to make grief simpler than evidence was not failure.
He did not agree immediately.
Then therapy did something annoying.
It made him say:
“I can hate the verdict without pretending the jury should convict what prosecutors did not prove.”
Good.
I learned that sentence at dinner.
Our first dinner.
Four months after Leo went home.
Six months after Camille died.
Not romantic timing.
Real timing.
Daniel called.
“Dinner?”
I stared at the phone.
“You kept count.”
“Yes.”
“That’s alarming.”
“I was trying not to ask every week.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that a yes?”
“No.”
Silence.
Then:
“Okay.”
I laughed.
“Tomorrow.”
Another silence.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
Good.
We met at a small restaurant in West Loop.
Not owned by Daniel.
I checked.
He looked offended.
“You think I own every restaurant?”
“I think you know too many people.”
“That is fair.”
No guards at the table.
One security person outside because Daniel still had legitimate threats.
We discussed it before.
No surprise.
No private room.
No champagne sent by management.
He wore a dark sweater instead of a suit.
Still looked like Daniel Russo.
People noticed.
Whispers.
I noticed him noticing.
“Does that bother you?”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“It used to feel useful.”
“And now?”
“It makes me wonder what people won’t tell me.”
That sounded like Camille’s work.
I did not say it.
Maybe he knew.
Dinner stayed normal for almost forty minutes.
Leo.
Work.
Michael.
Miriam.
Then Daniel asked:
“What would you be doing if you weren’t a nurse?”
I stared.
“That’s a weird question.”
“You ask me difficult things.”
“Fair.”
I thought.
“Maybe still nursing.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Yes, it was.”
He smiled.
“Fine.”
“What would you be doing if you weren’t Daniel Russo?”
His smile disappeared.
“I don’t know.”
Good.
No fake dream about opening a vineyard.
“I’ve been this since I was twenty-six.”
“Boss?”
“After my father died.”
“Did you want it?”
“At the time.”
“Now?”
He looked down.
“I want Leo to know me without learning everyone else should fear me.”
That was not an answer about career.
It was better.
Then Daniel said:
“Federal investigators want to interview me about old collections operations.”
My stomach tightened.
He had told me before the headline.
Good.
“Are you in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
His jaw tightened.
“I authorized extortion.”
Plain.
No euphemism.
“Against who?”
“Business owners. contractors. people who owed money to men connected to us.”
“Violence?”
“I knew threats were used.”
“Did you order beatings?”
“Some intimidation. I did not order every injury that happened.”
That sentence mattered.
Not absolution.
Not confession to everything.
“Why tell me tonight?”
“Because if you are deciding whether to have a second dinner with me, you should know who the first one is with.”
My throat tightened.
“Good.”
“You’re not leaving?”
“I might.”
His face closed.
I continued.
“Not tonight.”
He exhaled.
“I’m not dating your potential, Daniel.”
“I know.”
“I’m not dating grief either.”
“I know.”
“Camille matters even if she’s dead.”
His eyes met mine.
“Yes.”
“And Leo matters more than whether this becomes romance.”
“Yes.”
“Michael doesn’t get special treatment from you.”
“I have no intention.”
“Good.”
“And you do not hire me.”
He almost smiled.
“I learned.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Then maybe a second dinner.”
His expression changed.
Hope.
Careful.
“Maybe?”
“Do not ruin maybe.”
“I’m learning that too.”
Good.
Outside, he walked me to my car.
No kiss.
Not because we were prudish.
Because the air already carried too much.
Before I got in, Daniel said:
“I wanted to ask.”
I knew what.
“Not yet.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
No sulking.
No persuasion.
I drove home.
Michael was allowed a weekend pass from his program and sat on my couch eating cereal.
“How was mafia date?”
I threw my keys at him.
He ducked.
“You went.”
“Yes.”
“Did he buy the restaurant?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Then if he annoys you, you can leave without worrying he owns the sidewalk.”
I stared.
“That is surprisingly smart.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain gambling debt.”
“Less now.”
Fair.
Then he became serious.
“You like him.”
“Yes.”
Michael looked uncomfortable.
Good.
“So?”
“So I don’t know.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
I smiled.
Everyone was learning.
The next morning, Daniel’s face appeared on television.
Federal prosecutors had opened a formal criminal investigation into legacy Russo operations.
Not charges yet.
Just investigation.
The reporter called him a suspected organized-crime leader.
I watched.
Then my phone buzzed.
Daniel.
I answered.
“You okay?”
He laughed without humor.
“You’re asking me?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Good.
“What happens?”
“I meet counsel.”
“Then?”
“I stop pretending Camille was the only reason my world needed to change.”
That sentence mattered more than the headline.
Because Daniel had finally understood the investigation into him was not an interruption of his grief.
It was part of the truth she had been trying to force him to see.
The second dinner did not happen for another two weeks.
Not because of scandal.
Because I worked four nights in a row and Daniel had a pediatric follow-up that ran late.
Ordinary scheduling.
I loved that.
When we finally met, he brought no flowers.
I teased him.
“Afraid of gifts?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I asked my therapist.”
I laughed.
“You really do discuss me in therapy.”
“Unfortunately.”
“What did they say?”
“That gifts are fine if I can tolerate you saying no.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It is.”
We walked along the river after dinner.
Daniel asked before taking my hand.
I said yes.
That was the first time we touched outside a hospital context.
No baby between us.
No medical emergency.
No gunmen.
Just cold air and two adults trying not to confuse intensity with intimacy.
I liked him.
That became harder to deny.
It also did not make his indictment disappear.
When federal agents served document demands at Russo offices, Daniel told me the same day.
When an old associate threatened to “remind him who he was,” Daniel reported it through counsel instead of meeting the man privately.
I noticed.
He noticed me noticing.
“What?”
“You didn’t go.”
“I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
May you like
Approval from a nurse should not matter to a crime boss.
Maybe that was why it did.
