Chapter 4 - The Cousin’s Visit
Anthony Moretti didn't bother knocking.
He strode into the suite like a man who already owned the building, his tailored charcoal suit immaculate, his silver cufflinks catching the harsh fluorescent light. Behind him stood a massive, broad-shouldered man in a security jacket—one of Anthony’s personal enforcers, a brute named Miller whom I had trusted to guard my warehouse docks for five years.
“Leave us,” Anthony snapped without looking back.
Miller grunted and posted himself directly outside the open doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.
Anthony walked slowly to the side of my bed, looking down at my motionless form with a mixture of calculated pity and thinly veiled impatience. He reached out and adjusted the blanket near my chest, his touch cold and clinical.
“Still sleeping, cousin?” Anthony murmured, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips. “You know, Veronica is getting restless. She’s already measuring the drapes at the Hamptons estate. She thinks because you signed a temporary power of attorney three months ago, the courts are going to rubber-stamp the liquidation by Monday morning.”
I kept my eyes closed, forcing my breathing to remain agonizingly slow, though every instinct screamed at me to wrap my hands around his throat.
“It’s a shame about the brake line on the Bentley,” Anthony continued, leaning down so his mouth was uncomfortably close to my ear. His breath smelled of scotch and expensive mints. “Nico was a good kid, but collateral damage is part of modernizing the family, Dominic. You taught me that yourself. Too many old-school rules. Too many loyalties to people who don't matter.”
He patted my shoulder—a condescending, mocking gesture that made my muscles bunch beneath the sheets.
“Sleep well, Dominic,” Anthony whispered. “Tomorrow morning, the doctor is going to sign off on the terminal vegetative state transfer. And by Friday afternoon, your empire belongs to us.”
He turned sharply on his heel, his leather shoes clicking against the linoleum as he walked toward the door.
“Miller,” Anthony barked to his enforcer in the hallway. “Keep an eye on this room. I don't want any cleaning staff or unauthorized personnel wandering in here tonight. Veronica is coming by at midnight to check the vitals herself, and I want everything pristine.”
The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.
For nearly two minutes, neither Grace nor I made a sound. Then the privacy curtain rustled softly, and Grace emerged, her face pale, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.
“Did you... did you hear him?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Midnight. Miss Hale is coming back at midnight.”
“I heard him,” I said, sitting up fully against the pillows this time, ignoring the tearing pain in my ribs. I swung my legs over the side of the hospital bed, the cold linoleum biting into my bare feet. My muscles felt weak, atrophied from five days of stillness, but adrenaline flooded my veins with electric fire.
Grace stared at me in horror. “Mr. Moretti, what are you doing? You can’t stand up, you’re injured—”
“If I stay in this bed past midnight, I’m a dead man,” I interrupted, standing tall despite the wave of dizziness that washed over me. I grabbed the IV pole for support, ripping the plastic catheter out of the back of my left hand with a sharp hiss of pain, letting a drop of dark blood hit the floor. “And so are you.”
Grace clutched the Moretti Logistics ledger tightly against her chest. “What’s our next move? Miller is standing right outside the door.”
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“Miller is loyal to whoever pays him twenty percent more than Anthony,” I said, walking unsteadily toward the private bathroom connected to the suite. “And right now, I have three million dollars in an unmapped Swiss bearer account that says Miller values his kneecaps more than my cousin’s promises.”
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