Chapter 3 - THE BITTER MEDICINE
Enzo smiled when he saw us.
That smile had comforted me as a boy.
Now it made every instinct inside me sharpen.
“Marco.”
He descended the terrace stairs with the relaxed confidence of a man who believed he belonged everywhere he walked.
At sixty-two, Enzo Rossi still carried himself like the boxer he had been before business replaced fists. Silver touched his temples. His charcoal overcoat probably cost more than Sophia earned in a year.
He looked at Isabella.
Then Emma.
Then the basin beside the wheelchair.
“What’s happening out here?”
Isabella answered before I could.
“My leg moved.”
Enzo stopped.
Only for a fraction of a second.
Anyone else would have missed it.
I didn’t.
His smile returned quickly.
“Did it?”
“Yes!”
My daughter’s excitement filled the garden.
“Twice. And I felt Daddy touching my knee.”
Enzo crouched.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart.”
He touched Isabella’s shoulder.
She smiled at him.
I wanted to break his hand.
Instead, I watched.
“What brings you here?” I asked.
Enzo stood.
“Family council tonight. You forgot?”
“I didn’t forget.”
He glanced toward Sophia.
“Employees normally aren’t invited into family conversations.”
“Sophia is helping Isabella.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“With herbs?”
“With something my doctors apparently couldn’t accomplish.”
His eyes returned to the basin.
“Careful with miracles, Marco.”
The words were soft.
Almost fatherly.
“Sometimes people see what they desperately want to see.”
Three years earlier, I would have agreed with him.
Today, I heard something else.
A warning.
Emma walked around Isabella’s chair.
She stared at Enzo’s hand.
His wolf ring.
Then she moved behind Sophia’s leg.
Enzo noticed.
“Who’s this?”
“My daughter,” Sophia said.
“What’s your name, little one?”
Emma did not answer.
Enzo smiled.
“Shy?”
Emma shook her head.
“No.”
Sophia touched her shoulder.
“Emma.”
The child kept staring at the ring.
“My grandma didn’t like wolves.”
Silence.
Enzo laughed.
Neither Sophia nor I did.
“What an imagination.”
He looked at me.
“Children hear strange stories.”
“Yes,” I said.
“They do.”
Enzo left twenty minutes later.
I watched his sedan disappear through the gates.
Then I ordered the entire estate locked down.
No employee left.
No deliveries entered.
And Dr. Adrian Vale was summoned immediately.
He arrived at four seventeen.
His smile vanished when he saw Sophia sitting in my study.
“Mr. Rossi.”
“Doctor.”
He placed his leather bag beside a chair.
“I understand Isabella experienced some muscle movement.”
“More than muscle movement.”
“We should be careful not to misinterpret involuntary activity.”
“She felt my hand.”
Vale paused.
“Children can sometimes perceive pressure indirectly.”
“What does that mean?”
“The brain is complicated.”
“So is lying.”
His face changed.
Only slightly.
I stood.
“Why did you sign Rosa Bellini’s death certificate?”
Vale looked at Sophia.
Then me.
“I sign dozens of certificates.”
“You remember this one.”
“No.”
“Try harder.”
He swallowed.
“Rosa was briefly treated at one of our affiliated clinics.”
“For what?”
“A cardiac event.”
“She had no heart condition,” Sophia said.
Vale adjusted his glasses.
“Many patients have undiagnosed—”
“Stop.”
Sophia’s voice cut across the room.
“You told me she died in her apartment.”
Vale turned pale.
That was the first real crack.
I saw it.
Dante saw it too.
“What exactly have you been giving my daughter?” I asked.
“Standard treatment.”
“Names.”
“Marco, surely you have her prescriptions.”
“I’m asking what you put into her body.”
Vale’s eyes flickered toward the door.
Dante moved in front of it.
The doctor stopped pretending.
“I want my attorney.”
That sentence told me more than any confession.
“You’ll have one.”
I picked up Isabella’s medical file.
“After an independent team examines every page.”
“You cannot simply interfere with a treatment protocol.”
“I’m her father.”
“And sudden changes in medication can be dangerous.”
That part was true.
Which was why I had already contacted an independent pediatric neurological team at Columbia through a legitimate hospital liaison.
I wasn’t going to risk Isabella to satisfy my anger.
But no pill, injection, or therapy entered my daughter’s room again without independent review.
Vale seemed to understand that his control was over.
He stood.
“This is irrational.”
“No,” I said.
“Irrational was trusting you for three years.”
Dante escorted him out.
Two hours later, the independent physician arrived with two specialists and a pediatric rehabilitation expert.
They examined Isabella privately.
I paced outside the room.
Sophia sat with Emma in her lap.
“Tell me about your mother,” I said.
Sophia stared ahead.
“She believed bodies remembered things.”
“That sounds like something Emma would say.”
“She learned it from Rosa.”
“What did Rosa believe about Isabella?”
“That trauma was part of the injury.”
“Part?”
Sophia nodded.
“She thought there had been nerve damage after the crash, yes. But not enough to explain complete paralysis.”
“How would she know?”
“My mother saw Isabella six weeks after the attack.”
I turned sharply.
“What?”
“Elena arranged it before she died.”
“That makes no sense.”
“She arranged for Rosa to be listed as temporary agency staff at the rehabilitation center.”
“Why?”
“Because Elena didn’t trust someone.”
Sophia’s voice dropped.
“After the ambush, Rosa kept watching.”
“You’re telling me my dead wife anticipated something happening to Isabella?”
“No.”
“I’m telling you Elena anticipated something happening to your family.”
The specialists emerged before I could answer.
Their expressions were careful.
I hated careful expressions.
The lead neurologist, Dr. Hannah Pierce, removed her glasses.
“Mr. Rossi, I want additional imaging and laboratory work before making conclusions.”
“Tell me what you know now.”
She hesitated.
“Your daughter has significant weakness and severe motor inhibition.”
“Paralysis?”
“I’m not comfortable using that word until we review the original injury more thoroughly.”
My heart thudded.
“Can she walk?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can she recover?”
Dr. Pierce met my eyes.
“There are responses in both legs that I would not expect if the previous diagnosis were entirely accurate.”
Sophia covered her mouth.
I stared at the doctor.
“What could suppress those responses?”
“Several things. Trauma. Deconditioning. Certain medications. Psychological fear. Pain. A combination.”
“Medication?”
“Again, I’m not making accusations.”
“You don’t have to.”
That evening, we began reviewing everything Isabella had consumed over the previous month.
Meals.
Supplements.
Prescriptions.
Drinks.
The kitchen staff was questioned.
Then one of the younger housekeepers remembered something.
“Miss Isabella’s evening juice.”
I looked at her.
“What about it?”
“Ms. Clara always prepares it herself.”
Clara Donnelly had been Isabella’s private nanny since the accident.
I trusted her.
Or I had.
“Where is she?”
The housekeeper looked confused.
“She left.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
Every gate was locked.
Dante checked the monitors.
Clara had used an emergency access code.
A code belonging to Enzo.
We found the half-empty glass on Isabella’s bedside table.
Dr. Pierce sealed it for testing.
Three hours later, preliminary results came back.
The liquid contained traces of a prescription compound not listed in Isabella’s current chart.
Something capable of causing profound muscle weakness and sedation when used improperly.
I sat alone in the darkened study when Dante entered.
“She’s been getting it for how long?”
“We don’t know.”
“Find Clara.”
“We are.”
He placed a tablet on my desk.
“There’s something else.”
Security footage.
Six months of archives.
One clip showed Clara entering Isabella’s room at night carrying a small bottle.
Another showed her leaving.
A third showed her receiving an envelope near the servants’ entrance.
The man handing it to her wore a baseball cap.
His face was hidden.
But the license plate of the car was visible.
Dante traced it.
The vehicle belonged to Rossi Maritime Holdings.
Enzo’s division.
I stared at the screen until the image blurred.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
For several seconds, nothing.
Then Clara whispered.
“Mr. Rossi?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Where are you?”
“I didn’t know what they were doing at first.”
My grip tightened.
“Who?”
She began crying.
“They told me it was medicine.”
“Who told you?”
A sound interrupted her.
A door opening.
Clara gasped.
Then a man’s voice spoke in the background.
Low.
Calm.
Familiar.
“Clara.”
The line went dead.
I stood.
Dante looked at me.
“You recognize him?”
“Yes.”
I had known that voice my entire life.
It belonged to my uncle Enzo.
And if he had Clara, he knew we had discovered the medicine.
May you like
Which meant Emma had been right.
The bad man had come back because Isabella was waking up.
