Chapter 3 - Fractured Glass
The midday light shifted across the heavy mahogany desk in Dante's private study as I packed my equipment back into my leather bag. Dante sat rigidly in his wheelchair, his hands gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles looked translucent. The heavy oak door was locked, but the muffled sound of voices from the grand hallway reminded us both that we were living inside a gilded cage.
Without warning, Dante's breath hitched. His torso convulsed violently, a sharp, silent spasm that seized his chest and wrenched his head back against the leather headrest.
"Dante," I breathed, dropping my bag and rushing to his side.
I wrenched his collar open, pressing my fingers to his carotid artery. The pulse was erratic, fluttering wildly like a trapped bird. "Look at me," I commanded, pulling a pre-loaded syringe from my pouch. "Dante, focus on my voice. Breathe through it."
He let out a harsh, shuddering gasp, his eyes locking onto mine with sheer willpower as he fought off the sudden neurological shock. The heavy silver ring on his finger bit into his palm as he forced his muscles to relax.
Before I could administer the stabilizer, three heavy knocks sounded at the study door.
"Uncle Dante?" a smooth, polished voice called from the other side of the wood. It was Julian, Dante's nephew and the presumptive heir to the estate's vast commercial holdings. "Security said there's a disturbance in the East Wing. Just wanted to make sure you're resting comfortably."
Dante swallowed hard, his chest still heaving slightly. He raised a trembling hand, signaling me to stay silent, and cleared his throat until his voice sounded steady enough to project across the room.
"I'm resting, Julian," Dante called back, his tone laced with a cold authority that left no room for argument. "Leave me be."
"Just checking in, Uncle. You look... stretched thin lately. Perhaps Dr. Vance should take another look at your charts?" Julian's voice lingered by the door, dripping with an oily concern that didn't reach his words.
"My nurse is handling it," Dante replied sharply. "Go away."
A pause stretched behind the door. Then, the soft scuff of leather shoes indicated Julian was walking away.
Dante let out a long, ragged sigh, his head dropping forward. "He wants the shipping ports," Dante whispered, his voice barely audible. "He's been pushing the board to consolidate my accounts for six months."
"He's also the one with access to the dispensary keys," I said quietly, pressing the needle into Dante's arm to deliver the emergency counteractive agent. "The heavy metals we found in your system mimic chronic neurological decline. To anyone else, it looks like natural failure. To Julian, it looks like an inheritance."
May you like
Dante looked up at me, the last illusion of family loyalty shattering in his dark eyes. "I brought him in after his father died," he murmured bitterly. "I gave him everything."
"Greed doesn't care about blood, Mr. Moretti," I said, gently pulling the needle out and applying a sterile bandage. "Now rest. The lab results will be back soon, and when they are, we won't need to guess anymore."
