Chapter 3 - The Diagnosis
Dr. Robert Evans was an older gentleman with silvering hair and the weary demeanor of a physician who had spent thirty years treating the absurd, self-inflicted crises of the super-rich. But the moment he set his medical bag on the mahogany side table and examined Emma’s hand under the dining room chandelier, his professional detachment evaporated.
“Hold very still, young lady,” Dr. Evans muttered, gently manipulating her middle knuckle with latex-gloved fingers.
Emma inhaled sharply through her teeth, her entire body tensing. A white-hot flare of agony shot straight up her forearm.
Luca was standing less than two feet away, his arms folded across his chest. He hadn’t taken off his suit jacket, and he hadn't sat down. Every muscle in his frame was wound tighter than a steel cable.
“Be careful with her, Robert,” Luca said, his voice flat.
“I am being careful, Luca,” the doctor retorted without looking up. “And if you want me to give you an accurate assessment, I suggest you stop hovering like a storm cloud.” He gently rested Emma’s wrist on a soft linen towel. “The third metacarpal has a clean hairline fracture. The second and fourth are severely contused. The soft tissue damage is extensive.”
He glanced up at Luca, his spectacles sliding down his nose. “This wasn't a drawer. A sliding drawer doesn't generate the kinetic force required to snap an adult bone unless someone took a sledgehammer to it. This was caused by immense, localized pressure. A heavy, solid-core door slammed shut with deliberate velocity.”
Emma lowered her head, looking at the silver tray on the table.
“Fractured,” Luca murmured, the word vibrating with cold fury. “Will she need surgery?”
“No, thank God,” Dr. Evans sighed, reaching into his bag for a splint and rolls of cohesive bandage. “The bone didn't displace. But she won't be using this hand for at least six weeks. She needs it immobilized, iced, and elevated. And she needs rest. No lifting, no carrying trays, no typing. If she stresses this fracture before the bone knits, she’ll be looking at pins and chronic arthritis for the rest of her life.”
“She won't lift a finger,” Luca stated. “Her only job for the next month is recovering.”
“Mr. Moretti, that’s impossible,” Emma protested, looking up in panic. “I’m Sofia’s governess. I have to prepare her lessons, help her dress, organize her—”
“You are a patient right now, Emma,” Luca cut in, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “Mrs. Gable can handle the household chores. A temporary tutor can assist with Sofia's formal schooling if necessary. But you will stay here, and you will heal.”
“I don't need a temporary tutor,” a small, stubborn voice piped up from the doorway.
Luca turned. Sofia had slipped back downstairs, wrapped in a plush cream-colored blanket like a little ghost. Mrs. Gable, the elderly head housekeeper with gray hair pinned into a sensible bun, stood behind her, wringing her hands with an apologetic look.
“I tried to keep her in bed, Mr. Moretti,” Mrs. Gable whispered. “She wouldn't hear of it.”
“I only want Emma,” Sofia said, marching past her father and coming straight to Emma’s side. She looked at the purple, swollen fingers and tears welled up in her dark eyes. “Does it hurt terribly?”
“Only when I try to play the piano,” Emma joked weakly, trying to smile despite the throbbing ache.
Sofia didn't laugh. She leaned her forehead against Emma’s uninjured shoulder. “I don't like Miss Isabella. She smells like chemicals and she looks at our house like she already owns it.”
Dr. Evans finished securing the fiberglass splint around Emma’s hand, wrapping it neatly with black elastic bandage until only her fingertips peeked out. “There. Keep ice on it for twenty minutes every two hours. I’ve written a prescription for pain management. Luca, make sure she takes it with food.”
“I will,” Luca said. He reached into his pocket, retrieved his phone, and dialed a number. “Marco. Walk Dr. Evans to his car. Then have security clear the west wing. I want Miss Vance’s access codes revoked by midnight.”
Dr. Evans raised an eyebrow as he packed his instruments. “Trouble in paradise, Luca?”
“There was never a paradise,” Luca replied coldly. “Just an arrangement that has outlived its usefulness.”
After the doctor departed and Mrs. Gable gently led a protesting Sofia back up to bed with the promise that Emma would check on her in the morning, Emma found herself alone with Luca in the vast, echoing silence of the dining room.
The house felt cavernous. Rain had begun to slash against the arched windows, driven by a rising autumn wind.
“You should take a painkiller and go to bed,” Luca said, walking over to the sideboard and pouring two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass. He offered it to her with a faint, wry smirk. “Or this. It works faster.”
“I don't drink on duty, Mr. Moretti.”
“You aren't on duty, Emma. You’re on medical leave.” He set the glass down untouched and stepped closer, looking down at her splinted arm. “I owe you an apology.”
Emma blinked. “You don't owe me anything. You’re my employer.”
“I brought that woman into this house,” Luca said, his voice tightening with a dark, bitter edge. “I knew she was vain. I knew she was ambitious. In my world, ambition is considered a virtue. But I did not know she was vicious. If I had paid closer attention—if I had spent more time observing what was happening under my own roof instead of in boardroom meetings—this would not have happened to you.”
“You were protecting your company,” Emma said softly. “Everyone knows the Vance family controls the shipping terminals in New Jersey. That’s why you agreed to the engagement, isn't it?”
Luca paused, his dark eyes studying her face. Most people looked at Luca Moretti and saw only power, ruthlessness, and wealth. But Emma saw the shadows under his eyes. She saw the quiet, protective father who secretly checked on his daughter three times every night before he slept. She saw the man who had built walls so high no one could reach him—until tonight.
“The terminals are worth two hundred million dollars,” Luca admitted quietly. “Isabella’s father, Arthur Vance, made it very clear that the contract was contingent on our families uniting. I convinced myself it was a practical arrangement. A mother figure for Sofia. A strategic alliance for the business.”
He scoffed under his breath, taking a slow sip of the bourbon.
“What a catastrophic mistake.”
“She won't accept this quietly, Mr. Moretti,” Emma warned, her voice trembling slightly as she remembered the chilling threat Isabella had whispered. “She brought up your wife. She said... she said you couldn't protect her.”
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Luca’s expression didn't change, but his posture hardened into absolute granite. The glass in his hand remained perfectly still, yet the air around him felt charged with lethal electricity.
“Elena died three years ago on the mountain road,” Luca said, each syllable measured and flat. “A brake failure during a rainstorm. The police ruled it an accident. The Vance family helped secure the transport records during the investigation.”
Emma’s heart skipped a beat. “Transport records?”
“Elena was driving a car registered to Vance Logistics,” Luca murmured, staring into the dark amber liquid in his glass. “Arthur Vance assured me the vehicle had been inspected three days prior. He produced the maintenance logs himself.”
He set the glass down with a soft click.
“I have spent three years wondering why my wife took that car that night. And why Arthur Vance was so eager to handle the paperwork before the state investigators arrived.”
A chill ran down Emma’s spine. The puzzle pieces were beginning to align into a terrifying picture. Isabella hadn't just lashed out today because Sofia preferred Emma’s company; Isabella was terrified of losing her grip on the Moretti estate.
“Mr. Moretti,” Emma whispered. “Earlier, when the doctor arrived... I saw someone in the courtyard. Standing in the rain by the garden gate. Watching the house.”
Luca’s eyes snapped to hers, sharp and instantly alert. “A man?”
“Yes. Wearing a dark coat.”
Luca didn't waste a second. He pulled his phone from his jacket and hit a speed dial.
“Dante,” Luca barked into the receiver. “Lock down the perimeter. We have a trespasser near the west gardens. Check the infrared feeds from the north gate to the tree line. Now.”
He hung up, turning back to Emma. His hand reached out, his long fingers gently cupping the side of her arm above the splint, grounding her with solid, reassuring warmth.
“You’re sleeping in the guest suite on the second floor tonight,” he said firmly. “Not down in the staff quarters.”
“Mr. Moretti, that’s against the rules—”
May you like
“I make the rules, Emma,” he said softly, his thumb lightly brushing the fabric of her sleeve. “And tonight, the only rule that matters is keeping you alive.”
***
