Chapter 8 - The Forty Million Dollars He Didn't Remember Signing Away|
Forty million dollars.
Dante Moretti repeated the number in his head.
Once.
Twice.
It still didn't seem real.
For three years, Victor Hale had told him the organization was struggling because of the bombing.
That recovery expenses were mounting.
That certain businesses needed restructuring.
That Dante should focus on his health while Victor handled the complicated decisions.
Now investigators had found transfers totaling nearly forty million dollars.
And several authorizations carried Dante's name.
“Show me,” he said.
Detective Vargas opened the folder.
There were bank statements.
Company documents.
Transaction records.
And a series of authorization forms.
Some were signed during periods Dante remembered being heavily sedated.
Others were dated on days he had no memory of attending meetings.
One document transferred control of a shipping company to a holding corporation.
Another authorized the sale of valuable commercial property.
A third gave Victor temporary authority over several investment accounts.
Dante stared at the signatures.
They looked like his.
Almost.
But something was wrong.
The final stroke of his surname curved upward.
Dante never wrote it that way.
Not even when he was exhausted.
“Those aren't mine.”
Vargas nodded.
“A forensic document examiner will review them.”
Dante leaned back.
His head throbbed.
For years, he'd wondered whether his mind was failing.
Now he wondered how many people had exploited that fear.
“Did Isabella know?”
Vargas hesitated.
“We're investigating her role.”
“She brought me the medication.”
“We're aware.”
“She managed my appointments.”
“Yes.”
“And she's marrying me in seven weeks.”
Vargas studied him.
“Dante, I recommend you avoid making accusations until we establish the evidence.”
He gave a humorless smile.
“That's becoming a very difficult habit.”
“Then consider it an important one.”
She closed the folder.
“There's something else you should know.”
He looked up.
“Of course there is.”
Vargas placed a photograph on the table.
It showed Victor standing outside a private office building.
Beside him was Dr. Adrian Lang.
And beside Lang stood Isabella.
The photograph was dated six months earlier.
Dante stared.
“What were they doing together?”
“We're still establishing the purpose of the meeting.”
He looked closely.
Victor carried a briefcase.
Dr. Lang held a folder.
Isabella was smiling.
Dante remembered that day.
Or rather, he remembered what he'd been told about it.
He'd supposedly experienced a severe neurological episode.
Victor had canceled his afternoon meetings.
Isabella had insisted he remain in bed.
And Dr. Lang had increased his medication.
Dante looked at Vargas.
“That was the day they told me I'd forgotten an entire business meeting.”
She made a note.
“Do you remember the meeting?”
“No.”
“Do you remember anything unusual?”
Dante closed his eyes.
A fragment surfaced.
A conference room.
A blue folder.
Victor arguing with someone.
Then a headache.
A glass of water.
After that, nothing.
He opened his eyes.
“I remember a blue folder.”
Vargas nodded.
“Anything else?”
“Victor was angry.”
“With whom?”
Dante hesitated.
“Me.”
A cold silence followed.
The following morning, Dante returned to the mansion.
His surgical dressing remained in place.
His medication was being reviewed under medical supervision.
He wasn't suddenly healed.
The headaches continued.
His concentration still faltered.
But something had changed.
He no longer accepted Victor's explanations as unquestionable truth.
And he no longer allowed Isabella to tell him what he remembered.
She was waiting in the grand foyer.
When she saw the bandage, her expression changed.
“Dante.”
He stopped.
“Isabella.”
She approached quickly.
“What have you done?”
He looked at her.
“I had a medical procedure.”
“Without telling me?”
“Yes.”
She stared.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”
“My doctors explained the risks.”
“Dr. Lang wasn't consulted.”
“He isn't managing my treatment anymore.”
Her face went pale.
“What?”
Dante studied her.
“I've chosen a new medical team.”
Isabella's eyes narrowed.
“Victor won't be happy.”
Dante almost laughed.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“Victor.”
She frowned.
“He's concerned about you.”
“Then he can express his concerns through my attorney.”
Isabella stepped backward.
“You're acting strange.”
Dante looked directly at her.
“Maybe I'm finally acting like myself.”
For a moment, her expression changed.
Fear.
Not anger.
Not confusion.
Fear.
Then she whispered, “Someone is filling your head with lies.”
Dante nodded slowly.
“Someone has been.”
He walked past her.
She caught his sleeve.
“Dante, we need to talk about the wedding.”
He stopped.
Then looked down at her hand.
“Take your hand off me.”
She released him.
The hallway went silent.
Dante turned.
“There isn't going to be a wedding.”
Isabella stared.
“What?”
“I won't marry you.”
Her lips parted.
Then closed.
For a moment, she looked genuinely wounded.
Then something harder appeared.
“You can't do this.”
Dante held her gaze.
“I can.”
She stepped closer.
“Do you have any idea what Victor will say?”
Dante's expression went cold.
“I don't care.”
And that was when Isabella made her mistake.
She whispered, “You don't understand what he's capable of.”
The words hung between them.
Dante slowly turned.
“What did you say?”
Isabella went pale.
He stepped closer.
“What is Victor capable of?”
She looked away.
“Nothing. I didn't mean—”
“Isabella.”
His voice dropped.
“Tell me.”
But she backed toward the stairs.
Then whispered something that changed everything.
“The bombing was never supposed to happen while you were in the car.”
Dante stopped breathing.
For three years, he'd believed the explosion was an attack meant to kill him.
Now Isabella was suggesting something else.
Something planned.
May you like
Something that had gone wrong.
And before he could ask another question, she turned and ran upstairs.
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