Chapter 3 - The Doctor Who Was Never Missing

His name was Salvatore Moretti.

Luca’s father’s older brother.

Family adviser.

War strategist.

Temporary head of the Moretti organization after Luca’s yacht exploded.

Officially dead from a stroke six years earlier.

Apparently not.

Emma stared at the photograph again.

“You buried him?”

“No.”

Luca’s answer came too quickly.

Marco noticed.

“So there was no body?”

“There was a sealed coffin.”

Emma looked at him.

“That is not the same thing.”

Luca almost smiled.

“Tonight seems dedicated to proving that.”

Marco traced the photograph.

It had been taken twenty minutes earlier.

Twenty-sixth floor.

The medical wing.

They went up with four guards.

Emma was told to stay.

She ignored that.

Luca looked at her.

“You work here.”

“Yes.”

“This is no longer housekeeping.”

“I noticed.”

Marco hid a smile.

The private medical corridor smelled like antiseptic and expensive wood.

Dr. Mercer’s consultation room was empty.

So was the recovery room.

But the medication vault was open.

Not forced.

Opened correctly.

Marco checked access.

“Mercer.”

Luca rolled closer.

“Only Mercer?”

Marco frowned.

“Second authorization.”

“Who?”

He looked at Luca.

“Salvatore Moretti.”

Silence.

Emma felt it.

Not fear.

Betrayal.

Luca’s uncle had retained active medical access after his supposed death.

For six years.

“Someone kept his credentials alive,” Emma said.

Luca looked at Marco.

“Finance?”

“Could be.”

“Legal?”

“Could be.”

“Medical?”

Marco’s jaw tightened.

“Definitely.”

Emma moved toward the open cabinet.

Rows of vials.

Same handwritten dates.

Same Tuesday schedule.

One tray had been emptied recently.

“Marco.”

He joined her.

A label had been torn away.

Only one corner remained.

LOT 7M.

Marco photographed it.

Luca watched them.

Then his phone rang again.

Belini.

He answered immediately.

“Where are you?”

“Don’t come after me.”

“That is not happening.”

“Luca.”

“Where?”

She exhaled.

“The old clinic.”

Marco froze.

Luca’s face hardened.

“No.”

Emma looked between them.

“What old clinic?”

Luca answered without taking his eyes from the phone.

“A private facility my family used before the hotel was built.”

Belini whispered, “Mercer took me there.”

“Why?”

“Because I found the original treatment file.”

Luca’s grip tightened on the wheelchair arm.

“What file?”

“The one from the yacht explosion.”

Silence.

“You told me it was destroyed.”

“I was told it was destroyed.”

“By whom?”

Belini started to answer.

Then a crash.

The line went dead.

Marco was already moving.

The old clinic sat beneath a Moretti property on the Hudson.

Forty minutes away.

Too long.

Luca hated every minute of it.

Emma knew because he became quieter.

At the clinic, they found Belini alive.

Locked in a treatment room.

Red coat torn.

One wrist bruised.

No Mercer.

She looked at Luca.

Then at Emma.

“You brought her?”

Emma crossed her arms.

“I also brought myself.”

Belini almost laughed.

Then pain stopped her.

Luca rolled closer.

“Start talking.”

Belini’s eyes moved toward the locked cabinet across the room.

“File twelve.”

Marco opened it.

Inside were scans.

Luca’s spine.

His nerves.

His legs.

The dates began seven years earlier.

Emma did not understand the medical terms.

Dr. Elena Ruiz did.

Marco had brought her quietly from another Moretti hospital.

She read for less than a minute.

Then looked at Luca.

“Your injury was severe.”

He waited.

“But not complete.”

The room went still.

“What does that mean?” Emma asked.

Ruiz looked at Luca.

“It means the initial damage did not guarantee permanent paralysis.”

Luca’s face emptied.

Belini closed her eyes.

Ruiz continued.

“There were documented signals below the lesion six weeks after the explosion.”

Luca stared.

“I was told there were none.”

“I can see them here.”

Marco turned toward Belini.

“You knew?”

“Three weeks ago.”

Luca’s voice became cold.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Belini looked at him.

“Because I wanted proof before I accused your doctor of stealing seven years of your life.”

She pointed toward another page.

A treatment order.

Weekly nerve-suppressing injections.

Authorized by Mercer.

Countersigned by a Moretti executive.

Luca read the name.

Then stopped.

Emma looked over his shoulder.

SALVATORE MORETTI.

Luca whispered, “He kept me in the chair.”

Belini shook her head.

“No.”

Luca looked at her.

“What?”

She pointed to the final page.

The order began three months before the yacht explosion.

Emma felt cold.

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Belini’s voice dropped.

“They were suppressing your nerves before you were ever injured.”