Chapter 6 - The Anatomy of a Poison
"Is it reversible?"
The question came out of my throat like crushed gravel.
Dr. Reed looked at Dr. Thorne, then back at me. "The compound requires a continuous, low-dose administration to maintain the nerve blockade over long periods. If the chemical agent is completely removed from your system, and a targeted chelation therapy is combined with high-dose nerve regeneration protocols... the myelin sheath can recover."
My heart gave a massive, painful thud against my ribs.
"How long?" I asked.
"If the source of the toxin is eliminated today," Dr. Thorne said carefully, "and we begin treatment immediately, you could have partial motor function back in your knees within six months. Full weight-bearing capacity within a year."
I think your legs are sleeping. Not dead.
Maya's voice echoed in my head with the force of a thunderclap. An eight-year-old girl, standing on my porch with dirt on her knees, had seen through a twelve-year-old medical fraud that had fooled the entire world.
"You said continuous low-dose administration," I said, my mind instantly locking onto the clinical detail with lethal clarity. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Dr. Thorne said, his face growing incredibly solemn, "that this was not a one-time poisoning twelve years ago. The compound has a biological half-life of roughly forty-eight hours. If you had only been exposed once, the paralysis would have worn off within a week."
He looked around my luxurious, mahogany-paneled study, taking in the crystal decanters on the side table, the imported coffee machine, the custom water filtration system, and the prescription medications lined up in neat rows on my shelf.
"Whoever did this to you," Thorne whispered, "has been giving you this toxin every day for twelve years."
A cold, absolute calm settled over my mind—the deadly, terrifying quiet that used to take over my father when he was about to declare war on a rival family.
"Where is Dr. Vance?" I asked softly.
"He's downstairs in the main parlor," Dr. Reed answered. "He tried to leave fifteen minutes ago, but your security guard—Marcus—told him he wasn't permitted to exit the grounds."
"Bring him here," I ordered. "And tell Marcus to lock the front doors of the estate."
Five minutes later, Dr. Vance stepped into the study.
He looked twenty years older than he had three weeks ago. His hair was messy, his pristine suit jacket was unbuttoned, and his hands were shaking so violently that he had to clasp them together behind his back to hide the tremors.
He looked at the two specialists standing by my desk, then looked at the blue file sitting in front of me, and finally looked into my eyes.
He saw his own death written in my face.
"Luca," Vance squeaked, his voice thin and cracking. "Luca, I swear to God... I didn't know... I didn't know what it was at first—"
"Marcus," I said calmly without taking my eyes off Vance.
Marcus stepped into the room from the hallway, his face dark, his right hand resting inside his coat. He pulled a heavy leather chair into the center of the room, forced Vance down into the seat, and stood behind him like a stone wall.
"Twelve years ago, Vance," I said, my tone as cold and level as a winter lake. "I collapsed at a dinner party in downtown Chicago. You were the first doctor on the scene. You took me to Northwestern. You handled my private care. You wrote the original diagnostic report."
Vance began to cry—quiet, desperate tears that ran down his pale cheeks.
"They came to me two weeks before your collapse, Luca!" Vance sobbed, his hands shaking as he pointed toward the window. "They had my daughter! They had photos of her dorm room in Boston! They told me if I didn't certify the diagnosis, if I didn't sign off on the neurological reports, they would send her back to me in a box!"
"Who?" I asked. The single word sliced through his sobbing like a razor blade. "Who paid you to keep me in this chair?"
May you like
Vance swallowed hard, his jaw trembling, his eyes darting frantically toward the locked doors of the study.
"Your father's inner council," Vance whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. "It was Mateo. And your uncle, Dominic."
