Chapter 4 - The Friend Who Saved His Life
Gabriel looked at the laptop.
Then at Alessandro.
“What did you find?”
Nobody answered.
Marco reached toward his jacket.
Alessandro stopped him.
“Close the door.”
Gabriel did.
I held Emma tighter.
Alessandro replayed the recording.
Vittorio’s voice filled the room.
“I switched the pills. Gabriel will take the blame.”
Then the unidentified passenger spoke.
Gabriel’s face changed.
Not guilt.
Recognition.
He whispered, “Paolo.”
Alessandro’s jaw tightened.
“Your brother?”
Gabriel nodded.
That name meant nothing to me.
Apparently it meant everything to them.
Paolo Russo was Gabriel’s older half brother.
He had managed Moretti shipping operations for twelve years before disappearing from public business after Alessandro’s ambush.
“Where is he?” Alessandro asked.
Gabriel looked shaken.
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t spoken to him in eighteen months.”
Alessandro stared at him.
Gabriel continued.
“After your shooting, I found irregularities in the port accounts. Paolo was moving money. Millions.”
“You told me he resigned.”
“I forced him out.”
“You lied.”
“I was trying to keep you from killing him.”
The room became colder.
Alessandro’s voice lowered.
“You decided what truth I could handle?”
“I had just watched you learn you’d never walk again.”
“That was not your decision.”
“No.”
Gabriel’s eyes dropped.
“It wasn’t.”
I realized their friendship was cracking in front of me.
Not because of poison.
Because of old lies.
Alessandro rolled closer.
“Did Paolo arrange the ambush?”
Gabriel looked up.
“I don’t know.”
Wrong answer.
Alessandro’s entire body went still.
“You suspected him.”
“I suspected everyone.”
“You suspected your brother.”
“Yes.”
“And said nothing.”
Gabriel’s eyes filled with something that looked dangerously close to shame.
“I saved your life that night.”
“And maybe protected the man who put me in this chair.”
Gabriel flinched.
I took Emma out.
Some conversations did not need a child in the room.
The next morning, Gabriel was still at the estate.
Alessandro could have thrown him out.
He didn’t.
That told me more than anything.
Twenty-six years of loyalty did not disappear in one night.
But trust could.
And trust was dying.
Paolo became the focus.
Financial records revealed companies nested inside companies. Warehouses. Shipping contracts. Medical suppliers.
One supplier caught Dr. Hart’s attention.
Bellweather Clinical Logistics.
It had provided specialized medication to Alessandro’s rehabilitation team after the shooting.
The company was controlled through a holding corporation connected to Paolo.
Dr. Hart stared at the records.
“This goes back two years.”
Alessandro’s face darkened.
“What does?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Your rehabilitation medication.”
My stomach dropped.
“Could he have been interfering with Alessandro’s treatment since the accident?”
Dr. Hart didn’t answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
New tests were ordered.
Old samples were requested.
Medical records arrived in boxes.
Then something impossible happened.
Alessandro’s neurologist called.
There were discrepancies in his original spinal injury reports.
Not enough to suggest he should have recovered fully.
But enough to suggest his prognosis might have been deliberately made worse.
Alessandro listened without speaking.
When the call ended, he stared at his legs.
For two years, he had believed every possibility had been exhausted.
Now he didn’t know.
That uncertainty nearly broke him.
I found him alone in the physical therapy room that evening.
He was gripping the parallel bars.
His wheelchair waited behind him.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“You’re standing.”
“Trying.”
His arms shook violently.
His legs barely responded.
“Alessandro.”
“Don’t.”
He tried again.
His body lifted an inch.
Then collapsed.
I caught his shoulder before he struck the bar.
“Stop.”
He shoved my hand away.
“I said don’t.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Good.”
The word stopped me.
He looked away.
“I’m sorry.”
I stayed.
Eventually he said, “Do you know what the worst part was?”
I waited.
“Not the chair.”
His fingers tightened around the metal.
“It was everyone deciding what I could survive.”
Gabriel hiding Paolo.
Doctors making decisions.
Staff avoiding him.
Enemies reducing him to a wheelchair.
“Emma doesn’t,” I said.
He looked at me.
“She tells you when you haven’t eaten.”
His mouth twitched.
“She also steals my pens.”
“She’s diversifying.”
That made him laugh.
The tension broke.
I helped him back into the wheelchair.
“Tomorrow,” I said, “you call an independent specialist.”
He nodded.
“And no trying this alone.”
“You’re giving orders again.”
“Yes.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“I have a toddler. I’m trained.”
The independent specialist arrived two days later.
Dr. Maya Reynolds spent six hours examining Alessandro.
Her conclusion was cautious.
The spinal damage was real.
Severe.
Walking independently might never happen.
But his neurological function was better than his previous records suggested.
With intensive therapy, he could potentially improve core strength, transfers, circulation, and limited assisted standing.
Alessandro listened to every word.
He asked only one question.
“Was my previous treatment deliberately compromised?”
Dr. Reynolds looked at the reports.
“I can’t prove deliberate intent.”
“But?”
“But some of these medication combinations make no clinical sense.”
The room went silent.
Someone had not merely poisoned him recently.
Someone might have spent two years ensuring he remained weaker than necessary.
That evening, Gabriel asked to speak privately.
Alessandro refused.
“You speak here.”
Gabriel glanced at me.
“She stays.”
Gabriel accepted it.
Then placed an old photograph on the desk.
It showed Alessandro, Gabriel, Paolo and another man standing beside a black SUV.
The date printed in the corner was two days before Alessandro’s ambush.
Gabriel pointed at the fourth man.
“Dr. Marcus Vale.”
Alessandro frowned.
“My first rehabilitation physician.”
“He met Paolo before the shooting.”
“How do you know?”
“I found the photograph yesterday.”
“Where?”
“In my father’s safe.”
Gabriel swallowed.
“My father died eight years ago.”
Nobody spoke.
If the photograph had been locked away that long, then the conspiracy had started long before the ambush.
“Why would your father know Vale?” Alessandro asked.
“I don’t know.”
Gabriel’s phone rang.
He looked at it.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice came through.
“Gabriel.”
His face drained.
Paolo.
Alessandro motioned for Marco to trace the call.
Gabriel put it on speaker.
“Where are you?”
Paolo laughed.
“Still cleaning up Alessandro’s mess?”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing from you.”
“Then why call?”
“To warn you.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.
“About what?”
“You spent your whole life choosing him over blood.”
Paolo paused.
“Tonight you get to choose again.”
The call ended.
Marco cursed.
“Too short.”
Then every light in the estate went out.
Emergency power activated seconds later.
An alarm sounded downstairs.
I ran for Emma.
Rosa’s room was empty.
The bed was empty.
Mr. Rabbit lay on the floor.
I screamed Emma’s name.
Then I saw the open service door.
A tiny red shoe sat in the hallway.
Beside it was a phone.
The screen lit.
May you like
One message appeared.
BRING ALESSANDRO ALONE.
