Chapter 2 - Whispers in the Dark
The weight of Victor’s body in Claire’s arms was surprisingly light, but the weight of his words landed like an anvil.
Dominic was instantly out of his seat. His chair scraped sharply against the polished marble as he bridged the distance across the dining room in three long strides.
“Dad!” Dominic called out, his voice low, commanding, and laced with an edge of absolute alarm. He knelt beside Claire, his hand reaching out to support his father’s back. “Did he strike his head? Is he having another seizure?”
Claire’s pulse raced, but four years in emergency medicine forced her hands to remain completely steady. She gently rested Victor’s upper body against her knee, using her fingers to press lightly against the carotid artery in his neck.
“His pulse is elevated, but his breathing is clear,” Claire said, keeping her voice entirely clinical. She looked up and met Dominic’s intense, dark eyes. “He slipped. The muscle control in his left leg failed when he panicked. He didn't hit his head.”
Raymond DeLuca hurried over, his brow furrowed in deeply etched concern. “Should I call the private ambulance, Dominic? We can have Dr. Mercer here in ten minutes.”
“No!” Victor barked, his voice hoarse, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He dug his fingers tighter into Claire’s wrist, using her hand as an anchor. “No doctors! I am fine. Get me back to my room.”
Sophia stood by the head of the table, her arms crossed tight against her chest, her face pale with embarrassment and anger. “This is absurd. He shouldn't even be down here. He's making a spectacle of himself in front of everyone.”
Dominic didn't look at his sister. He didn't look at Raymond. His dark eyes remained fixed entirely on Claire. He had caught the split-second hesitation between his father and the nurse right before Victor spoke. He had seen the way his father had whispered directly into her ear.
“Help me get him up,” Dominic said softly to Claire.
Together, Dominic and Claire hoisted the old patriarch to his feet. Despite his stroke, Victor refused to let his legs drag; he forced his right boot forward, leaning heavily on Claire’s shoulder while Dominic supported his left side.
They moved slowly out of the dining room, down the long, carpeted hallway, and up the winding grand staircase. The silence between them was suffocating. Every step seemed to echo off the antique oil paintings of dead Moretti ancestors hanging along the walls.
Once inside the master suite, they helped Victor onto the plush duvet of his carved mahogany bed.
Claire immediately stepped to the bedside table, unzipping her medical bag. She pulled out a blood pressure cuff and wrapped it firmly around Victor’s right arm.
“Your blood pressure is through the roof, Victor,” she said quietly, inflating the cuff. “You need to rest. No more arguments tonight.”
Victor leaned his head back against the pillows, his eyes half-closed, but his grip on Claire’s forearm didn't loosen until she gently patted his hand. “You need to rest,” she repeated.
Dominic stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed, watching the exchange with hawk-like precision. He waited until Claire finished recording his father’s vitals in her medical ledger.
“Step outside for a moment, Nurse Donovan,” Dominic commanded smoothly. “I want a word with my father.”
Claire nodded, gathering her instruments. She offered Victor a brief, reassuring smile before turning on her heel and walking out into the dimly lit corridor.
The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind her.
Claire stood near the railing of the second-floor balcony, taking a deep, steadying breath. Her mind was spinning. Someone in this family is trying to kill me. Was Victor merely suffering from stroke-induced paranoia? Vascular dementia could cause sudden bouts of suspicion and delusions. Or was the old mob boss entirely sane?
Before she could process the thought, the door to the master suite opened, and Dominic stepped out.
He didn't walk past her. He stopped right in front of her, blocking the narrow hallway. His presence was overwhelming—the faint scent of expensive cedarwood cologne mixed with the lingering smell of rain from outside.
“What did he say to you?” Dominic asked. His voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of an executioner’s blade.
Claire looked up, meeting his piercing gaze without flinching. “He was disoriented from the fall, Mr. Moretti.”
“Don't lie to me, Claire,” Dominic said, stepping an inch closer. The thin scar near his eyebrow twitched slightly under the warm wall sconce lights. “My father hasn't held onto anyone like that since my mother died ten years ago. He whispered something to you before he fell. What was it?”
Claire felt her heart hammer against her ribs. She was a nurse from South Boston, working a private shift to pay off her late mother’s medical debts. She knew who Dominic Moretti was. She knew that men who crossed him ended up in the harbor.
If she told him what Victor said, and Victor was wrong, she would ruin an already fractured family and risk her job. But if Victor was right... telling the wrong person could put a target on the old man's back. Or her own.
“He told me not to let you know how weak he felt,” Claire lied smoothly, keeping her eyes completely steady. “He’s a proud man, Mr. Moretti. He hated that his legs gave out in front of his family. He was embarrassed.”
Dominic stared at her, analyzing every millimeter of her face, searching for a twitch, a breath, a lie.
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The silence stretched for five terrifying seconds.
Finally, Dominic leaned in, his lips inches from her ear. “My father trusts you, Nurse Donovan. That makes you very valuable in this house. But if I find out you are keeping secrets from me about his health... you’ll find out why people in Boston fear my name far more than his.”
