Chapter 7 - The Voice from the Past
Lucas stared at the recorder in his hand, his heart beginning to pound against his ribs.
His mother had vanished three years ago. The official police report had stated her car exploded on a lonely country road, destroying all evidence. But this recorder... this had been her favorite gadget, the one she used to dictate her garden notes and personal diary entries.
Why was it wedged behind the nightstand in his room?
Lucas looked toward the door. The hallway was silent. The night guard's footsteps faded as he walked his patrol toward the opposite wing.
With trembling fingers, Lucas pressed the tiny play button on the side of the device.
The speaker crackled with static, a harsh, hisive hiss that sounded like wind blowing through dry leaves. Then, a voice emerged through the tiny speaker—soft, warm, unmistakably maternal.
“October 14th,” Isabella’s voice whispered on the recording. “Lucas’s cough has been worse today. Dr. Vance prescribed a new batch of red capsules to help with his bronchial inflammation. I gave him the morning dose, but... something feels wrong. He’s been sleepier than usual. Too sleepy.”
Lucas stopped breathing. He held the recorder closer to his ear.
On the audio, background sounds filtered through—the rustle of paper, the squeak of the bedroom door opening, and then heavy, measured footsteps stepping onto the rug.
“Ah, Isabella,” a smooth, cultured voice said on the tape.
Lucas’s blood ran ice-cold. He recognized that voice instantly. It was Dr. Marcus Vance.
“Dr. Vance,” Isabella’s voice replied on the recording, sounding surprised. “You’re early for the weekly checkup.”
“I wanted to review the new pharmacological profile for the boy,” Dr. Vance said smoothly. “May I see the bottles?”
“Of course. Here they are. But Marcus, look at this batch—the pigment on these red capsules looks different from the last shipment. Are you sure these are safe?”
A pause on the tape. A heavy, sinister silence. Then, Dr. Vance’s voice dropped its professional warmth, turning chillingly flat.
“They are designed to do exactly what they need to do, Isabella. A slow, progressive decline. A medical mystery that even the best specialists in Europe won't be able to untangle. It creates... leverage. A grieving mafia boss is a desperate mafia boss. And a desperate mafia boss is much easier to manipulate from the inside of his own empire.”
Isabella gasped sharply on the recording. “What are you saying? You’re poisoning my son? You monster—give that back, I’m calling Lorenzo—!”
A scuffle. The sharp sound of a heavy object striking a hard surface. A muffled cry. Then, the terrifying click of the recorder being dropped, rolling across the floorboards, and sliding silently into the dark crevice beneath the nightstand where it had remained hidden for three long years.
The tape hissed to a final, dead stop.
Lucas sat frozen in the dim amber light, the small metal device gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles turned white.
It wasn't a curse. It wasn't an incurable disease.
For three years, his mother hadn't abandoned him in a car crash out of nowhere—she had discovered the truth, and Dr. Vance had murdered her to silence her. And every single day for three years, Dr. Vance had continued to hand Lucas the very poison that was slowly, methodically killing him.
The door to the bedroom suddenly clicked open.
Lucas whipped his head up, his heart hammering against his throat.
May you like
Standing in the doorway, framed by the dim light of the hallway, stood Dr. Marcus Vance, holding a silver tray with a fresh dose of liquid medicine.
"Ah, Master Lucas," Dr. Vance said, offering a sickeningly sweet, professional smile as he stepped into the room. "Still awake? I brought your midnight restorative. You must drink every drop."
