Chapter 1 - The First Confession
The air in the private Manhattan hospital suite felt thick, tasting of sterile antiseptic and the fading scent of Veronica’s expensive perfume. My eyes, heavy and burning from days of forced immobility, adjusted slowly to the dim light filtering through the automated blinds. Grace Miller stood frozen beside the bedside table, her knuckles pressed against the white cloth, her eyes wide with a terror that made her breath hitch in her throat.
For a terrifying second, I thought she might panic and scream, bringing the nurses—or worse, Veronica or Anthony—charging back through the double doors.
“Mr. Moretti... you’re... you’re awake,” she whispered, her voice a reedy tremor that barely carried over the steady, rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor.
“I told you,” I rasped, my throat feeling like it was lined with broken glass, each syllable scraping against raw tissue. “Lock the door.”
Grace swallowed hard, her chest heaving as she glanced back toward the hallway. With trembling fingers, she reached out and clicked the heavy brass thumb-turn on the suite’s private entrance, throwing the deadbolt home with a muffled metallic thud.
She turned back to me, her knees visibly shaking beneath her sensible gray cleaning uniform. “I shouldn't be in here. If Miss Hale finds out... if Mr. Anthony comes back—they told everyone you were gone, Mr. Moretti. They said brain activity was minimal.”
“Lies keep me alive,” I muttered, forcing my right hand to grip the edge of the mattress as I pushed my upper body slightly off the pillows. A sharp, searing pain tore through my fractured ribs, making me gasp, but I ignored it. In this world, weakness was a death sentence. “They need me a vegetable so the board signs away the shipping ports by Friday. But you... you heard what she said.”
Grace looked down at the floor, her hands twisting nervously in the fabric of her apron. “I heard her say you needed to die before Friday. And... and she wasn't the only one, Mr. Moretti.”
My gaze sharpened, locking onto her. “What do you mean?”
“The day before yesterday,” Grace said, her voice dropping to a panicked whisper as she leaned closer to the bed. “I was emptying the trash in the private conference room down the hall. Your cousin Mr. Anthony was on the phone with someone. He said... he said if the hospital natural death narrative takes too long, they have a contingency plan involving your IV drip.”
A cold fury surged through my veins, hot enough to cauterize the pain in my chest. Anthony. My own blood, the cousin I had pulled out of a gutter in Queens and elevated to vice president of Moretti Logistics.
“An IV contingency,” I repeated, the words tasting like ash.
“They’re watching every shift change, Mr. Moretti,” Grace pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. “The night nurse, Nurse Henderson—she’s been taking envelopes from Mr. Anthony’s driver for three months. I saw them exchanging cash behind the service elevators yesterday morning. She’s scheduled for the night shift tonight.”
Before I could process the full, sickening betrayal, a sharp, metallic knock echoed against the heavy oak door.
May you like
Grace gasped, her face draining of all remaining color as she stepped backward, stumbling against the tray table and nearly sending the vase of lilies crashing to the floor.
---
