Chapter 1 - The Thirteenth Nurse and the Forbidden Touch
Four armed guards stood rigid against the mahogany paneling of the grand drawing-room, their fingers resting lightly on the triggers of silenced weapons.
Claire Bennett did not flinch as the dark barrels shifted fractionally toward her chest.
She kept her index and middle fingers firmly pressed against the racing pulse in Luca Moretti’s wrist.
“Remove your hand,” Luca Moretti said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that had been known to make veteran syndicate capos tremble in their boots.
Claire did not take her fingers away.
“One moment,” she said, her voice steady and clear in the oppressive silence of the room.
Matteo, the head of security, had pulled her aside just outside the heavy double doors with a stern warning.
No one touched Luca Moretti without asking permission first, under any circumstances.
Only an hour earlier, a senior nurse who had tried to steady his arm when a sudden wave of dizziness struck had been dismissed before she could even pack her bags.
Claire was the thirteenth private nurse dispatched to the ominous stone fortress known as Blackthorn House in a span of just eight months.
Every single nurse before her had broken down, fled, or been fired within their first week.
She had been inside the cavernous master suite for a mere seven minutes.
Luca sat slumped in a high-backed velvet armchair overlooking the rain-lashed gardens of the estate.
Two elite guards flanked the heavy oak doors, while his personal physician, Dr. Sterling, clutched a leather-bound medical chart near the crackling marble fireplace.
A silver tray holding untouched lunch and scheduled medications sat on a side table, rejected and ignored.
Claire had diagnosed his underlying distress the instant she walked through the arched doorway.
She had noticed his shallow, labored breathing and the sickly gray pallor beneath his olive complexion.
His ankles showed visible swelling inside his custom leather shoes.
His hand had trembled uncontrollably when he attempted to turn the heavy page of a ledger.
Right now, under her fingertips, his pulse was erratic—skipping a beat, racing frantically, then dipping dangerously low.
“No,” she told him, refusing to yield to the intimidation of the room.
Dr. Sterling stared at her as if she had just signed her own death warrant.
Matteo went entirely still, his hand hovering over his holster.
“If I obeyed your ridiculous rule,” Claire said, locking her eyes onto Luca’s dark, piercing gaze, “you might not live long enough to fire me tomorrow.”
She finished counting the precise beats of his erratic heart before finally releasing his wrist.
“How long has this irregular heartbeat been present?” she asked, turning her sharp gaze toward Dr. Sterling.
“Several months,” the physician stammered nervously.
“And the dizziness?”
“At least six months.”
“What about chronic headaches?”
“Possibly eight.”
Claire shifted her attention back to the syndicate boss.
“Do you feel significantly worse after meals?” she asked.
Luca watched her without blinking.
She maintained her composure through the heavy, suffocating silence until he finally gave an answer.
“Frequently,” he muttered.
Dr. Sterling hurriedly lowered his medical chart, his face draining of color.
Claire’s mind flashed back to her late father.
Years ago, her father’s health had deteriorated month after month while teams of specialists chased phantom diseases.
One retired country doctor had finally asked a single overlooked question that saved his life.
Claire had never forgotten how vital the exact timing of symptoms could be in diagnosing hidden pathologies.
She glanced back at Luca’s untouched lunch tray.
Only half a cup of black coffee remained, and the food was completely untouched.
“When do you feel strongest during the day?” she asked.
“In the morning,” Luca replied, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.
“Before breakfast?”
“Yes.”
The guards still had their weapons aimed directly at her temple.
Claire refused to take a single step backward from Luca’s chair.
“Have you traveled away from Blackthorn House since this illness began?” she asked.
No one in the room dared to speak.
Outside, the autumn rain tapped a relentless rhythm against the oversized stained-glass windows.
Dr. Sterling looked up sharply, his expression shifting from arrogance to sudden realization, as though Claire had asked a question he should have investigated months ago.
Luca’s intense gaze remained locked on her face.
She could see the wheels turning in his brilliant, analytical mind as he searched his memory.
The sprawling estate, the scheduled meals, the agonizing mornings when merely standing up required superhuman effort—he was weighing them against the rare days he had spent traveling outside the gates.
Claire waited patiently for his verdict.
“Sometimes better,” he admitted softly.
She turned her gaze back to the physician.
Dr. Sterling had completely stopped studying his chart and was now staring at Luca in visible panic.
“How much better?” Claire pressed.
Luca’s hand tightened so hard on the wooden armrest of his chair that his knuckles turned white.
He did not answer immediately, letting the tension build to a breaking point.
“Noticeably better,” Luca finally said, his voice dropping an octave.
Claire nodded to herself, piecing the puzzle together in her mind.
“Dr. Sterling, when was the last comprehensive blood and toxicology panel run on Mr. Moretti?” she demanded.
The physician swallowed hard, adjusting his glasses.
“Standard panels were done last month.”
“Standard panels check for routine markers, not targeted metabolic disruptions or slow-acting accumulation,” Claire said sharply.
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“You are implying something absurd,” Dr. Sterling protested, his voice cracking slightly.
“I am implying that the master of Blackthorn House is being systematically poisoned from within his own household,” Claire declared, sending a shockwave through the room.
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