Chapter 2 - THE TRUTH IN THE FOLDER
My hands trembled, though I fought violently to steady them. I stared at the man standing before me—Nico Vitali, the undisputed king of the Chicago underworld. He didn’t look like a mobster from the movies. He didn't wear flashy jewelry or boast with loud arrogance. His power was a quiet, suffocating weight in the room, heavy enough to crush anyone who forgot to breathe.
"Open it," he repeated, his voice a low, gravelly command that left no room for negotiation.
I reached out, my fingertips brushing the cold, smooth leather of the desk. I flipped the manila folder open, expecting to see a ledger of my father's pathetic gambling debts, perhaps photographs of the men he owed, or a contract signing my life away as a servant.
Instead, I saw a medical chart.
I frowned, my nursing instincts kicking in before my fear could stop them. I leaned closer, my eyes scanning the heavily redacted documents. It was a pediatric file. A little girl, age six. Blood work, toxicology reports, and a list of symptoms that made my stomach knot: chronic fatigue, sudden unexplained bruising, respiratory distress, and neurological tremors.
"What is this?" I asked, looking up at him.
"Her name is Elena," Nico said. For a fraction of a second, the storm in his gray eyes broke, revealing a terrifying, raw desperation. It was gone before I could blink. "She is my daughter. And someone in this house is trying to murder her."
The words hung in the air, chilling the grand, opulent study. I looked back at the file, my mind racing. The toxicology reports showed trace amounts of heavy metals. Thallium, maybe? It was slow, insidious, and masked as a severe autoimmune disease.
"She has been seen by the best pediatricians in the state," Nico continued, stepping around the desk. The faint scent of cedar and smoke washed over me again. "They diagnosed her with a rare genetic disorder. They told me to prepare for the worst. But I know my enemies. They are cowards who smile to my face and strike at my shadow."
"Why am I here?" I demanded, my voice steadier now that I was looking at a patient, not a prison sentence. "I’m just a nurse. A student, actually. My father—"
"Your father is a degenerate who handed you over to save his own skin," Nico cut in, his tone turning to ice. "But you are not here to pay his debt. I bought his debt to acquire you."
I took a step back, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Why?"
Nico stopped inches from me. He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "Because you are brilliant. I have your academic records. You caught a misdiagnosis during your clinicals that saved a patient's life. But more importantly, Clara, you have absolutely no ties to my world. You don't know my lieutenants, you don't know my enemies, and you don't owe loyalty to anyone in the Chicago outfit."
He reached out, his knuckle lightly grazing the edge of the folder. "I cannot trust my own doctors. I cannot trust my own staff. I can only trust someone whose life depends entirely on me. You will be Elena's private nurse. You will monitor everything she eats, drinks, and breathes. You will find out what is killing her and you will stop it."
"And if I refuse?" I asked, lifting my chin.
May you like
Nico didn't smile, but a dark, terrifying promise settled in his eyes. "You won't. Because if my daughter dies, your father's debt will be called in immediately. And the men who come to collect won't be as polite as I am."
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