Chapter 2 - THE ARCHITECT OF GRIEF
The man standing directly behind Damien Moretti was adjusting his expensive silk tie, his face a perfect mask of aristocratic concern.
But I knew that face.
Dr. Julian Rossi.
He was older now, the silver at his temples more pronounced than it had been three years ago, but the cold, calculating emptiness in his dark eyes hadn't changed. He was the chief of neurology at Chicago Memorial. He was also the man who had overseen my younger sister’s care. The man who prescribed an experimental, aggressive treatment protocol she didn't need. The man whose "minor miscalculation" stopped her heart at nineteen, leaving me with a mountain of legal and medical debt after his high-powered lawyers crushed my malpractice suit.
And now, he was Damien Moretti’s private physician.
“Mr. Moretti,” Dr. Rossi said, stepping forward, his voice dripping with practiced calm. He reached for the baby in Damien’s left arm. “Give them to me. It appears to be a severe allergic reaction. The kitchen must have cross-contaminated their formula.”
Damien’s shoulders dropped a fraction. The fierce, terrifying mafia boss was, in this moment, just a desperate father. He started to hand the trembling infant over.
“Don’t let him touch them,” I said.
The words tore out of my throat before I could stop them.
The entire room went dead silent again. The bodyguards tensed.
Dr. Rossi froze, his hands hovering in the air. He finally looked at me. Really looked at me. I saw the exact moment the recognition hit him. A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his left eye.
“Who is this waitress?” Rossi asked, his tone hardening into sharp authority. “Security, get her out of here. She’s distressing the children.”
A guard’s heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder, pulling me backward.
“I said don’t let him touch them!” I shouted, fighting against the guard’s grip. “Look at the babies, Mr. Moretti! Look at their nail beds! They aren't flushed from an allergy. They’re pale. Their nervous systems are being suppressed, not hyper-stimulated. It’s a neurotoxin. And the powder on that bottle nipple isn't formula.”
Damien pulled his sons back against his chest. He looked down at their tiny hands. I was right. Their nail beds were stark white.
Damien’s dark, scarred face snapped up. His eyes locked onto mine. The sheer gravity in his stare made my lungs seize.
“Bring her here,” Damien commanded.
The guard shoved me forward. I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the linen-covered table.
“Damien, be reasonable,” Rossi said smoothly, stepping closer. “This girl is a waitress. She’s hysterical. I’ve been your family’s doctor for five years. I cared for Elena in her final days. You trust me.”
The mention of Elena—Damien’s late wife, the twins’ mother—made the temperature in the room plummet. Damien’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth would shatter.
“What is your name?” Damien asked me, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
“Ellie,” I breathed, keeping my eyes on the twins. Their breathing was stabilizing, the rhythm I had established still echoing in their recovering systems. “Ellie Hart. I have a master’s in neurologic music therapy. I spent three years studying pediatric neuro-trauma.”
“A waitress with a master’s degree,” Rossi scoffed, shaking his head. “Damien, she’s clearly disturbed.”
I didn't look at Rossi. I kept my eyes entirely on Damien.
“Three years ago,” I said, my voice shaking but loud enough for the guards to hear, “Dr. Rossi treated my sister. He gave her a synthetic paralytic to 'manage her tremors.' It built up in her system over weeks until her respiratory system forgot how to work. She suffocated in her sleep. He called it a tragic neurological anomaly.”
I pointed a trembling finger at the baby bottles on the table.
“Smell the powder on the rim, Mr. Moretti. It smells faintly of bitter almonds and chalk. It’s a synthetic muscle relaxant. Overdosed, it causes seizures. Micro-dosed over time... it causes sudden infant death syndrome.”
Damien didn't say a word. He slowly leaned over the table, keeping the babies secure against his broad chest. He brought his face close to the bottle. He inhaled.
When he stood up, the look in his eyes wasn't just terror anymore.
It was absolute, catastrophic violence.
Rossi took a step back, his polished composure finally cracking. “Damien, she’s lying. She’s a disgruntled, grief-stricken girl looking for a payday—”
“Empty your pockets, Julian,” Damien said softly.
“This is absurd!” Rossi protested.
Damien didn't raise his voice. He just looked at his lead guard. “Break his legs.”
The guard moved with terrifying speed. A heavy boot kicked out, striking Rossi’s knee with a sickening crunch. Rossi screamed, collapsing onto the Persian rug. His designer medical bag spilled across the floor.
I dropped to my knees, ignoring the gasps of the remaining staff. I dug through the spilled contents of Rossi’s bag. Stethoscopes, prescription pads, a blood pressure cuff.
And there, tucked inside a hidden velvet zipper pocket.
A small, unmarked glass vial filled with white powder.
I held it up to the dim light.
Damien stared at the vial. He looked down at the twin boys in his arms, who were finally drifting into an exhausted, fragile sleep against his heart.
“You poisoned my sons,” Damien whispered to the bleeding doctor.
“It wasn't me!” Rossi sobbed, clutching his shattered knee. “Damien, I swear to God! I was forced! He told me if I didn't slow their development, he’d kill my own daughter!”
Damien handed the twins to his lead guard with heartbreaking gentleness. He walked over to Rossi, his shadow swallowing the doctor whole.
“Who?” Damien asked.
Rossi was hyperventilating, tears streaming down his face. He looked frantically around the room, terrified. “I can’t. He’s here. He’s—”
Before Rossi could finish his sentence, a single, suppressed gunshot popped through the dining room.
The glass window behind us shattered. Rossi’s eyes went wide, a small red hole appearing in the center of his forehead. He slumped to the floor, dead.
Screams erupted. The guards drew their weapons, surrounding Damien and the babies, forming a human wall.
I dove under the table, my hands covering my ears.
A heavy hand grabbed my arm and dragged me up. It was Damien. His coat was stained with Rossi’s blood, but his grip was iron.
“You’re coming with me,” Damien growled.
“No!” I panicked, trying to pull away. “I just saved them! Let me go!”
“Whoever just shot him knows you identified the poison,” Damien said, his eyes scanning the chaos of the restaurant. “You’re the only one who knows what it looks like. You leave my sight, you’re dead before you reach the subway.”
He practically carried me through the kitchen doors, out into the rainy Chicago alleyway where three black armored SUVs were waiting.
We were shoved into the backseat. The doors locked with a heavy, final thud.
The adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a cold, crushing reality. I was trapped in a moving fortress with the head of the Chicago mafia, two poisoned infants, and a sniper somewhere in the city who wanted me dead.
Damien looked down at his shoes.
Caught in the tread of his leather sole was something he must have stepped on when Rossi’s bag spilled.
He pulled it loose.
It was a heavy, silver pocket watch.
But it wasn't Rossi’s.
Engraved on the back of the tarnished silver was a sprawling, elegant letter M.
May you like
Damien stared at it, the color draining completely from his face.
“That’s my father’s watch,” he whispered. “My father has been dead for ten years.”
