Chapter 3 - THE MEDICAL PROXY
The man in the white coat surveyed the silent dining room with cold, calculating eyes. He didn't look like a high-end concierge doctor. He had a jagged scar near his collarline and a thick, muscular build that strained against the seams of his lab coat.
“Dr. Aris,” Valentina said, her voice dripping with desperate relief. “Thank God. Florence is having another one of her episodes. She’s completely hysterical.”
Vincent didn't look at the doctor. He looked at the legal document in Valentina's shaking hand.
“Let me see that proxy,” Vincent demanded.
“It’s legally binding,” Valentina sneered, holding it tightly against her chest. “She signed it in front of a notary. Her mind is gone, Vincent. I’m just doing what you are too weak to do.”
I looked at Florence. The eighty-two-year-old woman was clutching the arms of her chair, her breathing shallow and ragged. She hadn't signed anything willingly. I knew her handwriting. I helped her write letters to her sister every Sunday.
“She didn't sign it,” I blurted out.
The doctor stopped walking. Valentina glared at me.
“I said you're fired, Emily!” Valentina screamed. “Security, get this maid out of my house!”
Two of Vincent’s armed guards stood by the door. Neither of them moved a single inch. They didn't take orders from Valentina.
Vincent walked over to Valentina, grabbed her wrist with one massive hand, and pried the document from her fingers. He unfolded it and stared at the signature line.
His eyes darkened.
“This isn't my mother’s signature,” Vincent said softly.
“It is!” Valentina insisted. “Her hands were shaking! Dementia causes motor skill deterioration, Vincent, the doctor will tell you—”
“My mother is left-handed,” Vincent interrupted, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “The ink smudges on this paper trail to the right. Whoever forged this is right-handed.”
Valentina’s mouth fell open.
Vincent crumpled the document and threw it on the floor. He turned his attention to the man in the white coat.
“Who are you?” Vincent asked.
Dr. Aris shifted his weight, his hand tightening around his leather medical bag. “I am the physician Miss Russo hired for a private consultation. I was told the patient needed immediate sedation for a transfer.”
“A transfer to where?” Vincent asked, taking a slow step toward him.
The doctor didn't answer. He took a step back toward the open doors.
I stared at the doctor's face. The harsh lighting of the chandelier illuminated the jagged scar on his neck, and a sickening wave of recognition crashed over me.
I knew that scar.
“Mr. Caruso,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “That isn't a doctor.”
Vincent didn't take his eyes off the man. “Explain, Emily.”
“His name is Thomas Vance,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. “He’s a real estate fixer. He’s the man who forged the eviction papers on my mother’s apartment building three years ago. He doesn't work for a hospital.”
Thomas Vance’s eyes darted toward me. He cursed under his breath, dropping the leather medical bag. He reached into his coat, but before he could pull a weapon, Vincent moved with terrifying speed.
Vincent crossed the room, grabbed Vance by the lapels of his white coat, and slammed him back against the mahogany doorframe. The crystal glasses on the dining table rattled from the impact.
“Why are you in my house?” Vincent roared.
Vance groaned, blood dripping from his lip. He looked at Valentina, who was now backing away toward the terrace doors.
“She hired me!” Vance choked out. “She paid me fifty grand to forge the proxy and drag the old lady out of here tonight!”
Vincent’s grip tightened on the man’s throat. “Why? Why tonight?”
“Because of the grocery store!” Vance gasped, clawing at Vincent’s hands. “She needed the old lady out of the way so she could sign over the deed to the Caruso grocery store!”
Vincent froze.
He dropped Vance to the floor.
The Caruso family grocery store had been boarded up and abandoned for fifteen years. It was a worthless piece of rotting brick on the South Side. It held zero commercial value.
Vincent slowly turned toward Valentina.
“You tried to institutionalize my mother for a condemned building?” Vincent asked, genuine confusion mixing with his rage.
Valentina scrambled backward until her spine hit the glass terrace doors. “It’s not condemned, Vincent! It’s worth a fortune!”
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Florence spoke up from the table. Her voice was no longer trembling. It was steady, anchored by a sudden, fierce clarity.
“The building isn't worth anything, Vincent,” Florence said quietly. “But what your father hid inside the walls is.”
