Chapter 3 - The Doctor Who Wasn't Allowed to Touch Him|
By six that evening, Dante Moretti had canceled every meeting on his calendar.
That alone was enough to send whispers through the mansion.
Dante rarely canceled anything.
Not business negotiations.
Not family obligations.
Not even appointments during the worst of his headaches.
For three years, Victor Hale had arranged his schedule around the episodes.
A headache meant darkness.
A memory lapse meant rest.
A sudden wave of confusion meant another visit from Dr. Adrian Lang.
Dante had accepted the routine because everyone assured him it was normal after a traumatic brain injury.
But now a five-year-old child had drawn something beneath his skin.
And Victor had reacted as though she'd uncovered a secret.
Dante sat at his desk, staring at Sophie's drawing.
An oval.
Short metal lines.
Three dots.
He turned the page sideways.
Then upside down.
The shape looked disturbingly precise.
A knock came at the door.
“Come in.”
His fiancée, Isabella Romano, entered carrying a silver tray.
She wore an ivory silk blouse and tailored black pants.
Her dark hair fell over one shoulder.
In seven weeks, they were supposed to be married.
“Victor said you had another episode.”
Dante looked up.
“Did he?”
Isabella placed the tray on his desk.
“Darling, you frightened everyone.”
“Everyone?”
She smiled.
“The staff.”
Dante looked at the tray.
A glass of water.
Two white tablets.
The same tablets he took almost every afternoon.
“What are these?”
Isabella blinked.
“Your medication.”
“I know that.”
She laughed softly.
“Then why are you asking?”
“What's in them?”
Her smile faded.
“Dante, really?”
He held her gaze.
“Tell me.”
Isabella looked toward the door.
“Dr. Lang prescribed them for your neurological symptoms.”
“Which medication?”
“I don't remember the name.”
Dante stared at her.
For three years, Isabella had reminded him when to take those pills.
She knew the dosage.
The schedule.
The rules about food and alcohol.
Yet she supposedly didn't know their names.
“Where's the prescription bottle?”
She hesitated.
“Victor keeps your medications organized.”
Dante leaned back.
“Of course he does.”
Isabella frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I'd like to speak to a different doctor.”
Her expression changed.
“Why?”
“Because I want an independent evaluation.”
“Dr. Lang knows your medical history.”
“So will the next doctor.”
“Dante, changing treatment suddenly could be dangerous.”
He nodded.
“That's why I'm asking for a medical review, not throwing away my medication.”
Isabella folded her arms.
“You're being suspicious again.”
The word made something tighten in his chest.
Again.
It was a word she used whenever he questioned things.
Whenever he couldn't remember a conversation.
Whenever he thought something didn't make sense.
You're being suspicious again.
You're exhausted.
Your injury is affecting your judgment.
Dante looked toward the pills.
Then back at her.
“Take them away.”
Isabella stared.
“Excuse me?”
“I'll take medication only after I've confirmed what it is with a physician.”
“Dante—”
“Please.”
For a moment, he thought she might refuse.
Then she picked up the tray.
“Fine.”
She turned toward the door.
But before leaving, she said quietly, “Victor won't like this.”
Dante looked up.
“Since when does Victor decide what I do with my body?”
Isabella didn't answer.
The door closed.
Dante sat alone.
Then he opened the bottom drawer of his desk.
Inside was an old telephone.
A simple black handset connected to an outside line.
His father had installed it years earlier.
Unlike the mansion's modern communication system, it wasn't connected to Victor's security network.
Dante dialed a number.
A woman answered.
“Dr. Rachel Bennett's office.”
“I need a neurological consultation.”
“May I ask who's calling?”
“Dante Moretti.”
A pause.
Then the receptionist asked whether this was an emergency.
“Not yet,” Dante replied.
He looked at the drawing.
“But I think it may have been one for three years.”
Two hours later, Dr. Bennett arrived through the side entrance.
She was an experienced neurologist who had treated patients with complicated head injuries.
Dante had requested that the visit remain private.
She examined the back of his neck using a bright medical light.
Then carefully reviewed his symptoms.
The headaches.
Memory gaps.
Periods of heavy sedation.
Occasional muscle weakness.
Episodes of confusion.
She asked whether he had current medical records.
Dante handed her the folder Victor kept in his office.
She reviewed it.
Then frowned.
“Some of these records are incomplete.”
Dante sat straighter.
“In what way?”
“There's no clear documentation of the retained fragment's size or location from your most recent imaging.”
He looked at her.
“Is that unusual?”
“For a patient with persistent symptoms, I'd want to review the original surgical records and imaging before drawing conclusions.”
She carefully inspected the scar again.
Dante watched her expression.
“Can you tell what it is?”
“No. A physical examination alone won't establish that.”
“Could it be metal?”
“Possibly. But we need appropriate imaging and specialist review.”
She paused.
“And I'd avoid pressing or manipulating it until we understand exactly where it is.”
Dante nodded.
Then asked, “Could something in my neck cause memory problems?”
“Some symptoms might be related to your original injury. Others could involve medication effects, sleep problems, or unrelated conditions. We shouldn't assume one explanation.”
For the first time in years, someone was speaking to him like an adult capable of understanding his own health.
Not a damaged man who needed decisions made for him.
Dr. Bennett arranged for a hospital evaluation with imaging chosen after reviewing the available records.
Before leaving, she asked for the names and doses of his medications.
Dante couldn't provide them.
Her expression became serious.
“Mr. Moretti, please have the prescriptions and pharmacy records sent to my office. Don't abruptly discontinue treatment without medical guidance.”
He nodded.
Then she said something he hadn't expected.
“Who has been managing these medications?”
“Victor Hale.”
“Is he your physician?”
“No.”
“Then I need to speak directly with the prescribing doctor and the pharmacy.”
Dante looked toward the library door.
For the first time, the arrangement seemed absurd.
He controlled millions of dollars.
Hundreds of employees.
An organization whose name frightened half of Chicago.
Yet he didn't know what pills he swallowed every afternoon.
After Dr. Bennett left, Dante returned to his study.
He reached for Sophie's drawing.
But the paper was gone.
He searched the desk.
The drawer.
The floor.
Nothing.
Then he noticed something near the door.
A tiny pink crayon.
Sophie had dropped it earlier.
Beside it lay a folded note.
Written in careful, uneven letters were four words.
I made another one.
Dante unfolded the paper.
Inside was a second drawing.
This one showed the metal shape beneath his skin.
And beside it, Sophie had drawn a small red dot.
Underneath, she'd written:
The light blinked.
Dante stared at the page.
Because scars didn't blink.
And pieces of ordinary shrapnel didn't have lights.
But he also knew a child's drawing wasn't medical proof.
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He needed to know exactly what Sophie had seen.
And why someone had removed the first drawing from his desk.
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