Chapter 1 - The Weight of Heavy Silk
The snap of latex against my wrists sounded sharp in the sprawling stillness of the estate room. I adjusted the stethoscope hanging around my neck, my gaze locked onto the man sitting before me in the metal wheelchair. Dante Moretti looked like a portrait of fading authority—dark hair slicked back with practiced precision, an unbuttoned white dress shirt that exposed extensive, intricate tattoos winding down his neck and across his knuckles. Behind him, Leo Romano stood like a dark monolith in his black suit and shirt, his arms crossed and his eyes scanning the marble floors with unwavering vigilance.
"So, the bodyguard brought me a florist," I said, my voice dropping into an even, steady register as I stepped closer.
Dante didn't flinch. His dark eyes narrowed slightly, studying me with the remnants of a predatory gaze that had clearly commanded rooms full of terrified men. But right now, his skin possessed an unnatural ashen pallor, and a faint tremor betrayed the fingers resting on the armrest.
"If you want to survive the weekend, shut up and let me work," I muttered, my tone turning sharp and uncompromising.
Dante didn't get angry. Instead, a flicker of curiosity crossed his exhausted features. "What did you find?" he asked, his voice a gravelly rasp.
I reached down, taking his tattooed hand in mine, feeling the abnormal coolness of his skin and the sluggish rhythm of his pulse. "You're not dying of an illness, Mr. Moretti," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "You're being murdered."
The word hung in the bright natural daylight filtering through the tall windows.
"Poison," I added softly, letting the reality sink into the sterile quiet of the room. "Slowly, by someone inside your own house."
Dante stared at me, the shock rippling across his face before his jaw tightened into a hard line of grim realization. He looked up at Leo, then back to me.
"Prove it," Dante whispered, the command carrying the weight of a man whose trust had been systematically dismantled.
"I can't prove it here in the open," I replied, keeping my voice low. "I need access to the private kitchen, the dispensary, and whatever tonics or water bottles are brought to your suite. If there's a slow-acting compound in your system, it's coming from your daily routine."
Leo shifted behind the wheelchair, his large frame tensing. "The staff handles everything, Nurse. Nobody gets near his food without clearing security."
"Clearly, your security missed something fundamental," I retorted, meeting the bodyguard's stern gaze without backing down. "Either we look now, while he still has the strength to fight it off, or you'll be planning a funeral by Monday morning."
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Dante let out a dry, humorless breath that turned into a suppressed cough. He pressed a hand to his chest, his knuckles white against the dark ink. "Do it," he rasped, looking directly at me. "Find who's doing it. Quietly."
I nodded once, slipping a small metal vial from my medical pouch and handing it to Dante. "Keep this hidden. If anyone comes in, pretend we're just adjusting your blood pressure. I'm going to start with the kitchen stores."
