Chapter 1 - The Nurse Who Laughed at a Death Threat
The coffee cup flew from my hand as I shouted, “Don’t move!”
Gabriel Moretti looked down at his wheelchair.
Coffee ran across one black leather shoe.
A tiny white label was stuck beneath the wheel.
THURSDAY — 3:00.
This had happened before.
Unfortunately, I did not know that yet.
At that particular moment, my biggest concern was staying alive.
Caramel-colored coffee dripped from Gabriel Moretti’s black shirt, ran over his expensive trousers, and gathered in humiliating little puddles on shoes that probably cost more than my car.
Nobody moved.
Two men in black suits stood near the windows.
Another stood beside the study door.
All three had the particular stillness of men who did not need to explain why their jackets bulged under one arm.
And there I was.
Twenty-eight years old.
Broke.
Sweaty.
Wearing the floral blouse I had bought at a clearance sale because my mother said it made me look “responsible.”
My Honda Civic was currently dying halfway down Gabriel Moretti’s mile-long driveway.
My checking account contained eighty-three dollars.
My cat, Pickles, required prescription kidney food that cost approximately the annual budget of a small municipality.
And I had just thrown an iced macchiato over a mafia boss.
Gabriel slowly lifted his head.
He was thirty-four, with dark wavy hair, a close beard, and eyes so dark they looked black from where I stood. A silver cross rested against his open collar. Tattoos disappeared beneath his sleeves.
Six months earlier, a sniper had put a bullet through his lower spine.
Incomplete L1 spinal cord injury.
Chronic neuropathic pain.
Reduced lower-body sensation and movement.
Thirteen caregivers in four weeks.
That was what the agency file said.
The file had neglected to mention the terrifying eyes.
“If you touch me,” Gabriel said quietly, “I’ll have you buried under the rose garden.”
My brain stopped.
Then I laughed.
One short, awful sound.
One of the guards blinked.
Gabriel’s expression darkened.
I covered my mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
“You find that amusing?”
“No.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
“Stress response.”
His eyebrows drew together.
I looked toward the enormous windows.
“You actually have a rose garden?”
Silence.
“That feels aggressively on-brand.”
The man beside the door lowered his chin.
I later learned his name was Vincent Kane and that he had been Gabriel’s closest friend since they were seventeen.
At that moment, I was reasonably certain he was trying not to smile.
Gabriel was not.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“Apparently not.”
“Gabriel Moretti. Thirty-four. Incomplete L1 spinal cord injury following a gunshot wound six months ago. Chronic pain. Intermittent spasms. Refuses half his physical therapy appointments. Thirteen caregivers have either resigned or been dismissed.”
His jaw tightened.
I grabbed napkins from the tray.
“And right now you have caramel syrup on a shirt that probably requires its own insurance policy.”
“Don’t touch me.”
I stopped.
That mattered.
Not the threat.
The reaction.
His shoulders had stiffened before I came within two feet of him.
So I put the napkins on his lap instead.
“Fine. Dab yourself.”
Vincent coughed.
Gabriel stared at me.
I waited.
My heart was hammering hard enough to make my vision pulse.
Finally Gabriel picked up one napkin.
He wiped his hand.
Then he looked at Vincent.
“Cancel the other interviews.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“She starts now.”
I actually looked behind me.
There was nobody there.
“You mean me?”
Gabriel gave me a look suggesting the bullet had damaged his spine, not his ability to recognize stupidity.
Vincent opened the door.
“Welcome to Moretti House, Ms. Bennett.”
That was how I became Gabriel Moretti’s nurse.
My name is Hannah Bennett.
And I should have run before sunset.
Instead, I stayed.
The money was part of it.
Double my previous salary.
Private quarters.
Meals.
Health insurance.
A retention bonus after six months.
But there was something else.
During the next hour, Vincent showed me the house and explained the rules.
No west wing after midnight.
No entering Gabriel’s office without permission.
No opening locked rooms.
No photographing guests.
No discussing deliveries.
No asking security questions.
“And the most important rule,” Vincent said.
We had stopped outside Gabriel’s bedroom.
“What?”
“Don’t pity him.”
“That one I can manage.”
Vincent studied me.
“You really aren’t scared of him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
That made him smile.
Then his expression changed.
“Good.”
I looked back toward the staircase.
“Why?”
“People who aren’t scared of Gabriel usually want something from him.”
“And people who are?”
“They make mistakes.”
I thought of the label beneath the wheelchair.
THURSDAY — 3:00.
“Does he have an appointment Thursday?”
Vincent’s eyes sharpened.
“Why?”
“I saw a label under his wheel.”
“What label?”
Before I could answer, Gabriel’s voice came from the bedroom.
“Hannah.”
I went inside.
He was beside the bed, staring at a medication cup.
“Who prepared this?”
I checked the chart.
“Evening staff.”
“There are three tablets.”
The chart showed two.
I picked up the cup.
My stomach tightened.
“What are they?”
“One is unfamiliar.”
Gabriel watched me carefully.
“Throw it away.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I’m documenting it.”
“I told you to throw it away.”
“And I’m telling you that an unexplained medication in the cup of a man who was shot six months ago is not something I dump down a sink.”
His expression became unreadable.
Then he gave a quiet laugh.
It was the first time I heard him do it.
“You’re going to be trouble.”
“My mother says the same thing.”
I photographed the medication.
Logged the discrepancy.
Sealed the unidentified pill in a specimen bag.
Then I noticed Gabriel staring at my phone.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was definitely something.”
He looked away.
“Most people here learned not to notice things.”
I slipped the phone into my pocket.
“My mother worked in a diner for thirty years. She taught me that people say the most important things when they think the waitress isn’t listening.”
Gabriel looked at me again.
For the first time, there was no hostility in his face.
Only calculation.
That evening, I unpacked upstairs.
At eleven forty-seven, I heard footsteps outside my room.
They stopped.
Then continued.
I opened my door.
The corridor was empty.
At the far end, an elevator indicator glowed.
Someone was going down.
I remembered Vincent’s rule.
No wandering after midnight.
It was not midnight yet.
Technically.
I put on slippers and followed.
The elevator stopped on the ground floor.
When I reached the bottom, I heard voices inside Gabriel’s study.
One belonged to Gabriel.
The other was older.
“You are becoming sentimental,” the stranger said.
“My medical decisions aren’t your concern.”
“Everything involving this family is my concern.”
I edged closer.
Through the narrow opening, I saw a silver-haired man standing behind Gabriel.
Carmine Moretti.
Gabriel’s uncle.
Carmine put one hand on the wheelchair.
“Your father left me a responsibility.”
“My father left you nothing.”
Carmine smiled.
“That depends on which document survives.”
My breath caught.
His gaze suddenly shifted toward the door.
I backed away.
Too late.
The door opened.
Carmine stood there.
He looked at my slippers.
Then my face.
“The new nurse.”
“Hannah Bennett.”
His eyes moved over me as if I were furniture delivered in the wrong color.
“The agency sent this?”
I smiled.
“The agency also taught this how to document medication discrepancies.”
Something flickered behind his eyes.
Only for a second.
Then he smiled.
“Good night, Ms. Bennett.”
I went upstairs.
I locked my door.
And at 2:13 a.m., my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One photograph.
It showed me standing outside Gabriel’s study ten minutes earlier.
Under it was a message.
YOU NOTICE TOO MUCH.
May you like
A second message appeared.
Then a photograph began downloading...
