Chapter 6 - The Adviser Who Knew Too Much|
Victor Hale stared at the medical image as though it could speak.
Dante watched him carefully.
For three years, Victor had explained everything.
The headaches.
The memory gaps.
The exhaustion.
The unusual medication schedule.
But now, for the first time, the old man seemed unable to explain anything at all.
“Who showed you that?” Victor repeated.
Dante leaned against the desk.
“A doctor.”
“Which doctor?”
“One I chose.”
Victor's eyes narrowed.
“You shouldn't be allowing strangers to examine your injury.”
Dante gave a cold smile.
“Why not?”
“Because your condition is complicated.”
“Then an independent specialist should be useful.”
Victor stepped closer.
“Dante, you're making a mistake.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Dante looked at the image.
“Tell me what that is.”
Victor said nothing.
“Three years, Victor.”
His voice dropped.
“For three years, you told me it was shrapnel.”
“It is.”
“Then why does it look manufactured?”
Victor's jaw tightened.
“Some fragments are difficult to identify.”
Dante held his gaze.
“You haven't even asked what the radiologist found.”
A long silence followed.
Then Victor looked away.
Dante felt something inside him break.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just the quiet collapse of a trust he'd built since childhood.
Victor had been there when Dante's father died.
He'd taught Dante how to negotiate.
How to recognize a threat.
How to maintain control over the family organization.
Dante had trusted him with everything.
Including his health.
“Did you know?” Dante asked.
Victor looked back.
“Know what?”
“That something was put in my neck.”
The older man's expression hardened.
“You're exhausted.”
Dante laughed bitterly.
There it was again.
The same explanation.
The same dismissal.
You're tired.
You're confused.
You're not thinking clearly.
“Don't,” Dante said.
Victor blinked.
“What?”
“Don't tell me I'm imagining things.”
Dante pointed toward the image.
“It's right there.”
Victor took a breath.
Then said quietly, “There are things about your recovery you don't understand.”
Dante stared.
“Then explain them.”
Victor glanced toward the door.
“Not here.”
The words made Dante's stomach tighten.
“Why?”
“Because other people might hear.”
Dante moved toward the door and opened it.
Two security guards stood outside.
He looked at them.
“Wait at the end of the hall.”
They obeyed.
Then he turned back to Victor.
“Now talk.”
Victor rubbed his forehead.
“The bombing wasn't an ordinary attack.”
Dante went still.
“What?”
“We received intelligence afterward that someone had intended to use your recovery to gain access to the organization.”
“Who?”
Victor hesitated.
“We never confirmed it.”
Dante stared.
“And the object?”
Victor looked away.
“It may have been part of a monitoring system.”
A cold silence followed.
“Monitoring system?”
“Yes.”
“Who authorized it?”
Victor's face tightened.
“Dante—”
“Who?”
Victor swallowed.
Then whispered, “Your medical team.”
Dante stared at him.
“You're telling me surgeons placed a device in my neck without explaining it to me?”
Victor said nothing.
Dante felt sick.
“Why would they do that?”
Victor lowered his voice.
“They believed it would help monitor certain complications.”
“Then why isn't it properly documented?”
“Some records were restricted.”
Dante gave a humorless laugh.
“Restricted from the patient?”
Victor's eyes hardened.
“Your memory was unreliable after the explosion.”
Dante stepped backward.
The words hit harder than he expected.
Victor continued.
“You weren't capable of understanding everything.”
Dante stared.
For three years, people had treated him as though his mind belonged to them.
His doctors.
His adviser.
His fiancée.
They decided which information he needed.
Which meetings he remembered.
Which symptoms mattered.
And which questions were evidence of confusion.
He looked toward the door.
“Get out.”
Victor blinked.
“Dante.”
“Leave my office.”
The older man's expression changed.
“You need me.”
Dante slowly turned back.
“Do I?”
Victor stepped closer.
“Your organization would fall apart without me.”
“Then perhaps I should find out how much you've been doing without my knowledge.”
For a moment, Victor looked genuinely frightened.
Then he straightened.
“You'll regret this.”
Dante opened the door.
“Maybe.”
Victor walked out.
But just before leaving, he stopped.
“And that child?”
Dante's blood turned cold.
“What about her?”
Victor looked over his shoulder.
“Children see things they don't understand.”
Dante stepped forward.
“Leave Sophie alone.”
Victor gave a small smile.
“Of course.”
Then he disappeared down the hallway.
Dante stood motionless.
His phone vibrated.
A message from Detective Vargas.
We have concerns about your former doctor's records. Call me privately.
He immediately dialed.
Vargas answered.
“Dante, we've obtained information about Dr. Lang's practice.”
“What information?”
“Several payments were made through a consulting company connected to Victor Hale.”
Dante closed his eyes.
“How much?”
“Substantial amounts over three years.”
He felt cold.
“Are the payments illegal?”
“Not automatically. But the records raise questions about the purpose of the arrangement.”
Then Vargas continued.
“There's something else.”
Dante gripped the phone.
“What?”
“Your medication records show dosage changes approved during periods when you supposedly reported worsening symptoms.”
He frowned.
“I did have worsening symptoms.”
“Perhaps. But some of the authorizations were based on telephone consultations.”
“With me?”
Vargas paused.
“That's what the records claim.”
Dante's stomach dropped.
Because he remembered something.
Every time his symptoms worsened, Victor said he'd spoken with the doctor.
Every time the medication changed, Isabella brought new pills.
And every time Dante questioned what was happening, someone reminded him that his memory was unreliable.
May you like
He looked toward the empty doorway.
Then whispered, “I never made those calls.”
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