Chapter 4 - Secrets of the Ledger
The following morning brought no peace to Villa dei Corvi. The mansion had been turned into a garrison. Every servant was interrogated; every digital surveillance feed from the past ninety days was scrubbed frame by frame.
I was in Dominic’s private study, wrapping a fresh compression bandage around his forearm. The flash grenade had peppered his skin with minor shrapnel burns, which he had stubbornly refused to treat until I threatened to march out of the estate.
“Hold still,” I commanded gently, securing the adhesive tape. “You act like you’re made of steel, but blood doesn't lie. Your heart rate is elevated, and you’re running on pure cortisol.”
Dominic sat quietly, allowing me to treat him. His gaze lingered on my face, intense and uncomfortably intimate. Up close, I could see the faint silver threads in his dark hair and the deep lines of exhaustion carved around his mouth.
“You didn't flinch last night,” Dominic said softly. “Most people would have packed their bags and fled the state after seeing a dead woman come back to life.”
“I’ve seen a lot of terrifying things in trauma bays, Mr. Caruso,” I replied, keeping my hands steady as I packed away the sterile gauze. “Monsters don't wear ghosts’ faces. They wear expensive suits and carry polite smiles.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You’re talking about Anthony.”
I hesitated, meeting his dark eyes. “Your brother tried to force you into signing power-of-attorney documents this morning, Dominic. I saw him in the foyer talking to your corporate lawyers while you were upstairs inspecting the balcony.”
Dominic’s expression darkened. “Anthony has always been ambitious. He believes our father made a mistake leaving the syndicate’s logistics and shipping empires to me instead of him. But there is a line between sibling rivalry and fratricide.”
“Did Elena love you?” The question slipped out before I could filter it.
Dominic went completely still. He looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the overcast sky.
“It was an arranged alliance,” he admitted, his tone raw and devoid of pride. “Our fathers brokered it to stop a bloody territorial war over the Great Lakes ports. When Elena arrived here, she hated me. She thought I was a ruthless monster. And perhaps I was.”
He looked back at me, a profound sadness flickering in his gaze. “Over time, we found an understanding. A fragile peace. I built that library for her because she loved 19th-century literature. It was the only room where she felt safe. When she fell ill… when she began wasting away, I brought in the best cardiologists in the country. None of them could explain why her heart was failing.”
“And when she died?” I asked softly.
“I held her hand until her pulse stopped,” Dominic murmured, his voice tightening. “I blamed myself. I thought the stress of my world had crushed her heart. For four years, I sat in that library every evening, enduring the silence as penance.”
“Dominic,” I said, stepping closer, my medical instincts piecing together the terrifying puzzle. “Elena didn't die of a broken heart. And she didn't die of an arrhythmia.”
Dominic’s eyes snapped to mine. “What do you mean?”
“The headaches. The extreme sensitivity to cold. The chronic nausea and sudden cardiac collapse,” I said urgently. “Carbon monoxide causes cellular hypoxia, but low-level, chronic exposure over months doesn't kill instantly. It mimics neurological decline, depression, and gradual heart failure. Someone was slowly poisoning Elena in that room for months before she collapsed.”
Dominic rose from his chair, a towering tempest of controlled fury. The desk beneath his hands creaked under his grip.
“Who had access to the heating controls four years ago?” he whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal realization.
“Before we answer that,” I said, pulling a folded sheet of paper from my pocket, “you need to see this. I managed to reach a contact in the Cook County medical examiner's archive an hour ago. The original toxicology panel from Elena’s death was never completed. It was flagged as ‘canceled by family request.’”
Dominic grabbed the paper. His signature was scrawled at the bottom authorizing the cancellation.
Except Dominic stared at the ink with narrowed eyes.
“That is not my signature,” Dominic growled. “It’s Anthony’s forgery. He learned how to duplicate my penmanship when we were teenagers.”
Before Dominic could speak another word, Marcus burst through the heavy mahogany doors, his face dark with urgency.
“Dominic, we have a problem,” Marcus stated. “The Moretti syndicate just crossed our northern docks. They’ve seized our cold-storage warehouses in Humboldt Park.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed into slits. “The Morettis haven't made an aggressive move in five years. Why now?”
“Because,” Marcus said, glancing nervously at me, “their leader, Vincent Moretti, just announced that he has entered a formal partnership with the new acting head of the Caruso family.”
Dominic’s jaw ticked. “Anthony.”
May you like
“Yes,” Marcus confirmed grimly. “And Anthony just called an emergency meeting of the syndicate’s council of capos at the downtown high-rise for three o'clock today. He’s declaring you mentally incapacitated due to yesterday’s poisoning—and claiming Miss Bennett is an operative sent by our rivals to destabilize your mind.”
***
