Chapter 2 - The Inner Circle
Grace didn't scream. That was the first thing that told me she wasn't just another terrified worker caught in a mob war. Her eyes widened in shock, her chest heaving as she processed the impossible reality of a dead man waking up beneath her fingertips, but her hand instantly darted toward the heavy oak door.
Click.
The brass latch dropped securely into place, engaging the heavy deadbolt with a muffled thud.
"Mr. Moretti," she breathed, her voice shaking violently as she pressed her back against the wooden panel. "You... you're awake. You're actually awake."
"Keep your voice down," I rasped, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. I forced myself to sit up slightly, ignoring the searing protest of my fractured ribs. Beads of cold sweat broke out across my forehead, but I didn't let my expression waver. "Come closer. And stop staring at me like I'm a ghost. The ghost business is strictly for outsiders."
Grace swallowed hard, stepping back toward the bed with hesitant, trembling steps. She wrung her hands together in the pocket of her navy smock. "Dr. Vance said you had zero brain activity. He told the family you were in a permanent vegetative state."
"Alistair is a brilliant surgeon, but a terrible liar unless he's getting paid six figures to do it," I muttered, swinging my legs slowly over the edge of the mattress. The world spun for a sickening second, the white hospital room tilting on its axis, but I gripped the metal bed rails until my knuckles turned white. "Help me up. Not to my feet—just into the chair by the window. If anyone looks through the observation glass, they need to see an empty bed, not a man sitting up talking."
Grace moved instantly. She didn't ask questions, didn't panic, and didn't hesitate. She grabbed my arm, her surprising strength bracing my weight as I slid off the mattress and half-walked, half-stumbled toward the heavy leather armchair tucked into the corner shadows beneath the drawn blinds.
Once I was seated, draped in a dark wool blanket she quickly wrapped around my shoulders, I took stock of the situation.
"How long have you been working for Veronica?" I asked, my eyes locked on her face.
"Six months at the penthouse, sir," she answered immediately, her chin raised despite her fear. "And before that, I cleaned the offices at your downtown holding firm for two years. I'm invisible, Mr. Moretti. People leave confidential documents on desks, argue on speakerphone while I'm vacuuming, and talk about million-dollar deals as if I'm a piece of furniture. But I listen. And I remember."
"Good," I said, my voice dropping into the low, gravelly register that had made Wall Street executives and syndicate bosses sweat for a decade. "Because right now, you are my only asset in this hospital that I can actually trust."
Grace looked down at her shoes for a second, then back up, her eyes steady. "What do you want me to do? If Dr. Vance or Miss Hale finds out you're conscious, they'll finish the job before you even reach the elevator."
"They won't find out," I replied, my mind racing through the tactical layout of the floor. "Veronica thinks she has until Friday midnight. That gives me roughly thirty-six hours to find out who cut my brakes, who signed off on my medical isolation, and how deep the rot goes in my own organization."
I leaned forward, ignoring the pain in my chest. "Grace, I need a burner phone. Not from the hospital gift shop, and not registered to anyone connected to my accounts. Can you get one?"
"My cousin works at a bodega down on Tenth Avenue," she said without missing a beat. "Burners, cash-only, no questions asked. I can run out on my lunch break in twenty minutes."
"Do it," I instructed, reaching into the hidden pocket of my hospital gown where Alistair had discreetly tucked my emergency signet ring before the family arrived. I pulled off a heavy platinum band embedded with a rare black diamond—a piece of jewelry worth more than most houses—and pressed it into her palm. "If anyone stops you, tell them you're going out for my specific brand of organic lemon water. Use this ring if you need cash for supplies, but bring it back. It's a family heirloom."
Grace stared at the ring resting in her palm, her fingers curling over it tightly. She nodded once, her fear momentarily overshadowed by a fierce, quiet resolve. "I'll be back in twenty minutes, Mr. Moretti. Don't let anyone in."
"If anyone knocks," I whispered with a cold smile, "tell them I'm resting very, very deeply."
May you like
As the door clicked open and closed with barely a sound, I leaned back into the shadows of the chair. The trap was set, but Veronica and her co-conspirators didn't realize one crucial detail:
The wolf wasn't dead. He was just waiting for the sheep to step into the clearing.
Related Stories
