Chapter 2 - The Physician and the Splinter
The guest suite on the third floor smelled of lavender soap, sterile alcohol, and quiet dread.
Dr. Marcus Harris gently pulled the hem of my black uniform undershirt up toward my shoulder blades.
Even with his seasoned, clinical touch, the friction of the fabric against the raw skin made me bite my lip so hard I tasted copper.
"Hold still, Emma," the doctor said softly, his silver hair catching the warm light of the bedside lamp.
Mrs. Carter stood by the oak armoire, holding a stainless steel tray containing antiseptic solutions, gauze, and surgical tweezers.
"How bad is it, Marcus?" Mrs. Carter asked in a hushed whisper, her hands trembling slightly against her apron.
Dr. Harris adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, shining a small penlight directly onto the laceration.
"The blunt force trauma has caused deep contusions across the rhomboid and latissimus dorsi," he reported gravely.
He reached down with the tweezers and carefully extracted a quarter-inch sliver of dark varnished oak from the edge of the wound.
A sharp hiss escaped through my clenched teeth.
"She took the full impact of a hard edge right over the ribcage," Dr. Harris continued, dropping the bloody wood fragment into a metal dish with a soft clink.
"If this blow had landed three inches higher, her clavicle would have snapped clean in two."
"Will she need the emergency room?" Mrs. Carter asked, glancing anxiously toward the heavy oak door.
"I can tape the ribs and manage the pain locally, but she needs complete bed rest for at least ten days."
The words hit me harder than the physical injury.
"No, please," I stammered, twisting my head around despite the agonizing spasm in my neck.
"Dr. Harris, I cannot take ten days off. I have to be on my feet. My mother’s dialysis bills are arriving on Monday."
Dr. Harris looked down at me with genuine sympathy in his tired eyes.
He had served as the Moretti family physician for thirty years, and he had seen the cost of living under the shadow of power.
"Emma, your muscle fibers are severely strained. If you attempt to carry trays or lift heavy linen hampers tomorrow, you risk permanent nerve damage."
"I don't care about the nerve damage," I cried softly, my tears finally overflowing onto the white pillowcase.
"If I don't work, my mother loses her apartment in Pilsen. She doesn't have anyone else."
Before Dr. Harris could reply, the heavy brass latch of the suite door clicked open.
The door swung inward with absolute silence.
Luca Moretti stood in the threshold.
He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only his white dress shirt with the cuffs unbuttoned and rolled back to his forearms.
His presence immediately sucked the oxygen out of the room.
Mrs. Carter instinctively straightened her back and took a step away from the bed.
Dr. Harris did not flinch, but his shoulders visibly tightened as he met the boss's cold gray eyes.
"How is she, Marcus?" Luca asked, stepping into the suite and closing the door behind him.
"Deep muscular trauma and extensive skin abrasions, Luca," Dr. Harris replied, setting his tweezers onto the tray.
"She was subjected to sudden, violent blunt force against a solid wooden structure."
Luca walked to the side of the bed.
He did not look at the bandages or the antiseptic bottles.
He looked down at the tiny, bloody sliver of dark wood resting in the stainless steel dish.
He picked up the metal dish, tilted it under the lamp light, and studied the grain of the wood.
"Walnut," Luca whispered, his voice dangerously smooth.
"Hand-carved banister from the 1890s cellar renovation."
My heart stopped beating.
He knew.
He knew down to the exact tree the wood had been harvested from.
Luca set the dish down on the nightstand and looked directly into my eyes.
"You told twenty-six people at my dinner table that you bumped into a storage shelf."
I pulled the linen sheet higher against my collarbone, trembling beneath the weight of his stare.
"I didn't want to cause trouble, Mr. Moretti."
"Trouble was already caused the moment blood was spilled under my roof."
Luca pulled a wooden chair from the corner of the room, set it beside the bed, and sat down.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees, his eyes level with mine.
"Mrs. Carter. Marcus. Leave us for five minutes."
Mrs. Carter hesitated, looking at me with protective maternal concern.
"Go," Luca said without raising his tone.
The physician and the housekeeper quietly gathered their supplies and exited into the hallway, pulling the door shut until the latch engaged with a heavy click.
The silence in the room was deafening.
I could hear the rain beginning to patter against the tall glass panes of the third-floor window.
"Emma," Luca began, his voice surprisingly gentle, yet carrying an undercurrent of vibrating steel.
"Your mother's name is Clara, correct?"
A cold spike of dread shot through my stomach.
"How do you know my mother's name?"
"I know the names, backgrounds, and vulnerabilities of every single person who sleeps or works on my estate," Luca replied evenly.
"I know she worked thirty years as an elementary school librarian in Cicero."
"I know her heart failed six months ago, and I know you spent your entire college savings fund to pay for her valve replacement."
Tears burned the backs of my eyes, blurring his sharp, austere features.
"Please don't hurt her, Mr. Moretti. She knows nothing about this house. She doesn't even know who you really are."
Luca’s expression darkened with something resembling quiet offense.
"Do you believe I am in the habit of threatening sick elderly women?"
"I... I don't know what you do, sir," I whispered honestly.
"I only know what Miss Bellini told me in the cellar."
Luca leaned in closer, his gaze sharpening until it felt like a laser cutting through my defenses.
"Tell me what she told you."
I swallowed the lump of panic lodged in my throat.
"She said that if I spoke a single word about what I saw, she would make sure my mother was evicted from her apartment before sunset tomorrow."
Luca’s eyes did not blink.
"And what did you see, Emma?"
My voice shook uncontrollably.
"I saw Miss Bellini giving an envelope to Thomas."
"What else?"
"Thomas said, 'Fifty now, the rest when the car enters Vance’s gate.'"
The temperature in the room plummeted to subzero.
Luca did not gasp.
He did not curse.
His posture did not shift by a single millimeter.
Only the muscle along the side of his jaw tightened until it looked like carved stone.
"Did Thomas use Julian Vance's name explicitly?"
"Yes, sir," I nodded, fresh tears spilling onto my cheeks.
"He said, 'Vance’s crew will take care of the escort at the south junction. The groom won't make it to the altar.'"
Luca remained motionless for five long, silent seconds.
He looked down at his own hands, studying the silver signet ring on his pinky finger.
"And then?"
"I dropped one of the wine crates because my hands were shaking," I explained, reliving the terror of that dark cellar.
"They turned around."
"I tried to run back up the stone steps, but Miss Bellini caught me by the collar."
"She told me I was a filthy little servant who had ruined her perfect timeline."
"She shoved me backward with both hands."
"I hit the banister edge, and my breath went out of me."
"I fell down the steps onto the floor."
"She stood over me and told me that if I whispered a single breath of what I heard, she would have Thomas visit my mother’s home in Pilsen tonight."
Luca closed his eyes for a brief moment.
When he opened them, the cold detachment that usually defined his face had been replaced by something far more terrifying: absolute, methodical calculation.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved a heavy gold Montblanc fountain pen and a leather-bound checkbook.
Without looking away from me, he wrote several rapid lines across the paper.
He tore the check from the binding with a crisp, sharp snap.
He laid it flat on the nightstand beside the dish containing the bloody wood splinter.
I glanced down at the paper.
The figure written in bold black ink was one hundred thousand dollars.
My breath caught in my throat.
"Mr. Moretti... I cannot accept this."
"That is not a gift, Emma. It is your mother’s medical security for the next two years."
"Why are you giving this to me?"
"Because you took a blow meant for my blind spot," Luca said quietly, his voice cutting through the quiet room.
"Because my own arrogance allowed a viper into my dining room, and you were the one who paid the price in blood."
He stood up, towering over the bed like an ancient guardian carved from granite.
"For the next twenty-four hours, you will remain in this room."
"You will not open this door for anyone other than Dr. Harris or Mrs. Carter."
"If Vanessa Bellini approaches this wing, my personal guards outside the corridor will escort her away."
"What are you going to do to her?" I asked, terrified of the answer.
Luca adjusted the cuffs of his white shirt with meticulous precision.
"Tomorrow is supposed to be my wedding day, Emma."
His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile that sent chills down my spine.
"It would be extraordinarily rude of me to leave my bride waiting at the altar without a proper celebration."
He turned toward the door, his movements fluid and completely composed.
"Rest your back, Emma."
He paused with his hand on the brass door handle, looking back over his shoulder.
"And do not worry about your mother’s apartment in Pilsen."
"Two of my best men are already parked outside her front door."
"No one will touch a single hair on her head tonight."
With that, Luca opened the door, stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, and pulled the door shut behind him.
I sank back against the pillows, clutching the bedsheets against my bruised ribs.
May you like
Outside the window, the autumn thunderstorm broke over Chicago with a violent crack of thunder that rattled the glass panes.
The hunt had officially begun.
