Chapter 8 - The Whisper in the Dark|
Thirty minutes after the tense confrontation with Moretti, the gala's host invited the key shipping council members into the private mezzanine boardroom for an urgent executive session.
"Stay by the bar with Cole," Nathan whispered to me, kissing my cheek in full view of the ballroom—a public declaration that sent another shockwave through the crowd. "I will be back in fifteen minutes."
"Be careful," I whispered back, surprised by how desperately I meant it.
Nathan squeezed my hand and headed up the grand marble staircase toward the mezzanine, flanked by two bodyguards.
The ballroom was stifling. Cole stood six feet away, his hawk-like eyes scanning every server and guest. Feeling overwhelmed by the stares and whispers, I stepped toward the outdoor terrace to catch a breath of crisp night air.
"Cole, I'm just getting some air," I said.
Cole nodded, stepping out onto the terrace with me, keeping a respectful distance near the doors.
The terrace overlooked the glittering lights of Michigan Avenue. I leaned against the stone balustrade, closing my eyes and breathing in the cold lake breeze.
"Quite a charming prince you've found, Miss Carter."
I gasped, spinning around. Marcus Moretti was standing near the shadows of the terrace arbor, sipping champagne from a crystal flute. Cole instantly stepped forward, his hand plunging beneath his jacket toward his holster.
"Easy, Cole," Moretti laughed softly, raising his hands. "No weapons. Just an old man offering condolences to an orphan."
"Back off, Moretti," Cole growled.
"I just wanted to ask Miss Carter if she knows the truth about how her mother died," Moretti said, his voice dripping with venomous sweetness.
I froze. "What did you say?"
"Miss Carter, don't listen to him!" Cole warned sharply.
"Your mother, Hannah Carter," Moretti continued, ignoring Cole entirely. "She died of aggressive lung complications at Oak Ridge Memorial, didn't she? After receiving chemotherapy treatments for six months?"
"How do you know that?" My voice shook.
"Because six months ago, Drake Harbor Logistics cleared a massive shipment of imported oncology medications through customs," Moretti said, taking a slow step toward me. "Counterfeit chemotherapy drugs manufactured in black-market labs overseas. Drake knew the shipment was compromised. He knew the vials were diluted with toxic stabilizers. But he cleared them anyway to pocket an eight-million-dollar distribution fee."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The air rushed out of my lungs as if I had been punched.
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"You're lying," I whispered, tears blinding my eyes. "You're a murderer trying to save yourself!"
"Am I?" Moretti pulled a folded manifest from his inside pocket and tossed it onto the glass table between us. "Check the bill of lading, Miss Carter. Batch #904-X. Delivered directly to Oak Ridge Memorial's pharmacy. Signed by Nathan Drake himself. Why do you think he paid your $49,200 bill without blinking? It wasn't pity, sweetheart. It was guilt. Nathan Drake didn't save your mother. He killed her."
