Chapter 3 - The Private Clinic
Dr. Harrison’s private facility in Highland Park did not look like a medical center. It was an unmarked grey limestone villa set behind a thick belt of birch trees, equipped with two operating suites, a state-of-the-art radiology room, and a staff that signed twenty-page non-disclosure agreements before receiving their first paycheck.
By eight o'clock that morning, my wrist had been set under conscious sedation, two titanium pins had been inserted to stabilize the bone, and my head wound had been closed with four neat nylon sutures.
I lay in a private recovery suite overlooking a quiet courtyard. My left arm was encased in a thick fiberglass cast suspended by a blue sling, and an IV drip of non-narcotic anti-inflammatory medication was running into my right hand.
The door opened quietly.
I expected Gideon. Instead, Walter stepped into the room.
The Marquetti family’s head butler was sixty-two years old, built like an old iron stove, and possessed the posture of a former military officer. He had served Senior Don Antonio for thirty-five years, remaining in the mansion long after the rest of the original household staff had been replaced by Victoria’s modern agency hires.
He carried a small leather overnight bag and a silver vacuum flask.
“Miss Adeline,” Walter said softly, bowing his head slightly as he closed the door behind him. “Mr. Gideon asked me to bring your personal items from the staff quarters.”
“Thank you, Walter.”
He set the bag on the armchair beside the bed, then poured a cup of dark, aromatic tea from the flask. The steam smelled of fresh ginger and honey.
“How is the arm?” he asked.
“It hurts,” I admitted, taking a small sip of the warm liquid. “But the doctor says I’ll have full mobility in six weeks.”
Walter stood by the edge of the bed, his hands folded behind his back. His grey hair was neatly combed, his black suit brushed, but his pale eyes were heavy with a deep, silent shame.
“I checked the pantry shelf this morning, Miss Adeline,” Walter said quietly. “The bottle of olive oil used on the stairs came from the cold-storage pantry in the basement. It was a five-liter tin of imported Tuscan oil that we keep for formal dinner parties. The tin was left open on the lower shelf, half-empty.”
“Did you find any footprints?”
“No,” Walter replied, his voice dropping into a bitter murmur. “The floor had been wiped down with a damp mop right up to the edge of the slick. Whoever did it was thorough. They knew where the camera blind spots were, and they knew the morning routine.”
I set the tea cup down on the rolling tray. “Walter, why does Victoria want her father’s nurses gone so badly?”
The old butler looked toward the door, ensuring the latch was secure, before leaning down toward me.
“It’s not just the nurses, Miss Adeline,” Walter whispered. “It’s what the nurses see. Senior Antonio cannot speak, but he is not brain-dead. His cognitive functions returned four months ago after Dr. Harrison adjusted his neuro-stimulator medication.”
I sat up slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at my bruised ribs. “What are you saying? Antonio can understand what’s happening?”
“He understands everything,” Walter said, his eyes watering slightly. “He communicates through a simple eye-tracking board we keep hidden under his mattress. He knows every detail of the family business. He knows Victoria has been liquidating the family’s real estate holdings through offshore companies in Panama.”
“And Gideon?”
“Mr. Gideon has been trying to protect his father’s legacy without starting an open war within the organization,” Walter explained. “If the senior lieutenants know Antonio is mentally competent, Victoria loses her authority over the estate’s distribution. But if Antonio dies before the annual board meeting next month, Victoria’s power of attorney takes effect, and she liquidates the entire company.”
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place with a sickening, metallic clatter.
The oil on the stairs hadn't been meant to scare me away like the other nine nurses.
It had been meant to kill me—or at least put me in an operating room for twelve hours—so that the master bedroom would be left unattended during the early morning hours when Senior Antonio’s respiratory support was at its most vulnerable.
I reached for my blue sling, supporting my cast as I swung my legs over the edge of the hospital bed.
“Miss Adeline, what are you doing?” Walter asked, stepping forward with his hands raised in alarm. “Dr. Harrison said you need to rest for at least twenty-four hours.”
“Where is Gideon right now?” I demanded, pulling the IV line free from the back of my hand with a swift, practiced movement and pressing a piece of gauze against the small drop of blood.
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“He returned to the mansion an hour ago,” Walter said. “He summoned Miss Victoria and the family legal team to the library for an emergency conference.”
“Then get the car, Walter,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “Because your boss is walking directly into a trap, and his sister isn't done pouring oil.”
