Chapter 7 - Secrets in the Medical Bay
The sterile hum of the estate’s private medical bay felt entirely divorced from the violent currents shifting through the Moretti compound.
Dr. Marcus Vance, a disgraced former trauma surgeon whose debt to the syndicate had long ago bought his lifelong loyalty, tapped a digital tablet while Emma sat on the examination table, swinging her small legs back and forth. A fresh, unused EpiPen case sat neatly on the counter beside a scatter of allergy test printouts.
"Her vitals are pristine," Marcus said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as he looked up at Elena, who stood anxiously beside the table. "Zero residual histamine response. The epinephrine from yesterday cleared her system cleanly. Honestly, Mrs. Carter, for a child who has experienced four severe anaphylactic episodes, her resilience is remarkable."
Elena let out a long, shaky breath, reaching out to stroke Emma's dark curls. "Thank you, Doctor. When you live with an allergy like that, every single day feels like walking a tightrope over an abyss."
"I understand," Marcus murmured, his eyes flickering briefly toward the heavy reinforced door. "And given who brought you down here, your rope just got a lot thicker—and a lot more dangerous."
Before Elena could respond, the heavy steel door hissed open, and Alesandro stepped into the room. He had changed into a fresh black button-down shirt, though the tension still corded the muscles in his neck. The air in the small medical bay seemed to drop ten degrees the moment he entered.
Emma stopped swinging her legs. She looked up at the towering mafia boss, her wide, clear eyes untainted by fear, holding out her stuffed bunny toward him as if offering a peace offering.
Alesandro paused. A strange, almost imperceptible softening crossed his hard features. He stepped forward, crouched down beside the examination table, and tapped the stuffed rabbit's soft ear with one large finger.
"How is she, Marcus?" Alesandro asked without breaking eye contact with the child.
"She’s healthy, Boss," Marcus replied, packing away his instruments. "Better than healthy. But she needs continuity of care. Those emergency injectors have an expiration date, and given her history, she needs a specialized supply chain that regular pharmacies can't always guarantee."
Alesandro nodded slowly. He stood up, turning to Elena. "Pack your things from the staff quarters."
Elena froze, her maternal protective instincts flaring instantly. "What? Why? You said we were safe here."
"You were safe in the staff quarters," Alesandro corrected, his voice flat and unyielding. "Vincent had access to the roster. He knew which room you were assigned to. After tonight, that wing is compromised. You and Emma are moving upstairs."
"Upstairs?" Elena’s voice rose in disbelief. "To the private residence? Mr. Moretti, we are cleaning staff. We don't belong in your living quarters."
"You saved my life," Alesandro countered, stepping closer, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that brooked no argument. "And now my enemies know you did. Putting you anywhere else in this compound is signing a death warrant. From tonight on, your rooms are directly adjacent to mine. My personal detail guards that hallway twenty-four hours a day."
Elena stared at him, recognizing the cold, absolute logic behind his command. She had no choice. In the world of the Moretti syndicate, an invitation from the boss wasn't a promotion—it was protective custody wrapped in silk and steel.
"Alright," Elena whispered, her shoulders slumping. "We'll move."
As Alesandro turned toward the door, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the encrypted screen, and his face turned to ice.
"Boss," Marcus said quietly, watching the screen. "Is it from the vaults?"
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"Worse," Alesandro said, his voice dropping into a lethal register. "The Commission just called an emergency summit for dawn. They know Vincent was locked up. And they want to know why I’m suddenly sheltering ghosts."
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