Chapter 2 - The Notebook They Wanted Destroyed
Alfonso survived the ride to the hospital.
That did not mean he was safe.
By the time the ambulance reached St. Bridget Charity Hospital, his heart rate had fallen to thirty-six beats per minute. His blood pressure was seventy-eight over forty-four. The emergency team rushed him through the double doors while I ran beside the gurney, giving the attending physician every measurement I had recorded since noon.
“Possible beta-blocker overdose,” I said. “Unknown time of exposure. Prescribed dose is twelve-point-five milligrams. Tablets found at the residence may be twenty-five.”
The doctor looked at me.
“Are you family?”
“No. Private nurse.”
“Then wait outside.”
I stopped.
Hospital rules were clear, but so was the danger.
“His grandson is behind us. The patient has heart failure, stage-three kidney disease, and a history of atrial arrhythmia. He also received a diuretic at six-ten.”
The doors closed between us.
My hands began shaking only after Alfonso disappeared.
I stared down at my scrubs. A smear of brown medicine from the mansion carpet marked my thigh. My ID badge had turned backward. My braided bun was loosening.
The waiting area smelled of disinfectant, burned coffee, and wet coats.
I had spent six years working nights in that building. I knew which vending machine stole money, which elevator stalled between floors, and which ceiling tile still bore a water stain from a pipe leak three winters earlier.
Yet standing there with Alfonso’s black notebook in my pocket, the hospital felt unfamiliar.
Enzo entered two minutes later.
He was soaked from the rain. His charcoal suit jacket was unbuttoned, and one cuff was stained with blood.
I looked at it.
“Bruno’s,” he said.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
The way he answered made me believe that had been a choice.
Two men followed him through the entrance. I recognized neither. Both wore dark overcoats and scanned the waiting area before taking positions near the doors.
“Where is Bruno now?” I asked.
“Contained.”
“That isn’t a medical term.”
“No.”
He walked toward the admissions desk.
The receptionist looked up and immediately straightened.
“Mr. Marchetti, we are preparing a private cardiac room.”
“No visitors without my permission.”
“Of course.”
“No information released by phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And no staff changes without verification.”
She nodded quickly.
I had never seen hospital administration respond so fast to anyone.
Money could not cure heart failure.
It could, however, make locked doors appear.
Enzo returned to me.
“What did the doctor say?”
“They’re treating a suspected overdose.”
“Will he live?”
“I don’t know.”
His expression did not change, but the muscles beside his jaw tightened.
I had seen family members cry, shout, pray, bargain, and collapse in hospital corridors. Enzo did none of those things.
He looked toward the closed emergency doors as if stillness alone could hold his grandfather inside the world.
“He knew,” I said quietly.
Enzo turned.
“About Bruno?”
“I think so.”
“Why would he say nothing?”
“Maybe he had no proof.”
“He could have told me his suspicions.”
“Would you have believed him?”
His eyes sharpened.
I had overstepped.
But he did not answer.
That was answer enough.
Bruno had been part of his family for decades. He had stood beside Enzo’s father at funerals, weddings, negotiations, and baptisms. He had helped raise Enzo after his mother died. A dying man accusing him without evidence might have seemed confused or paranoid.
Alfonso had needed someone outside the family’s loyalties.
Someone who recorded everything.
Enzo looked at my scrub pocket.
“My grandfather mentioned your notebook.”
I covered it with one hand.
“He told me not to let anyone take it.”
“I am not anyone.”
“That is exactly what someone would say before taking it.”
For the first time that night, a faint expression crossed his face.
Not a smile.
Recognition.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I barely know you.”
“My grandfather chose you to marry me.”
“He also tried to refuse an ambulance while his pulse was forty.”
“That sounds like him.”
The emergency doors opened.
Dr. Hannah Price stepped into the waiting area. She was a compact woman in her forties with tired eyes and a surgical cap printed with tiny blue stars.
“He is stable for the moment,” she said. “We administered medication to counter the bradycardia and started additional support. Toxicology is pending.”
Enzo took one step closer.
“Conscious?”
“Intermittently.”
“Can I see him?”
“One person. Briefly.”
He looked at me.
“You go.”
Dr. Price raised an eyebrow.
“He is asking for her,” Enzo said.
That was not true.
But the doctor recognized me.
“Five minutes, Adeline.”
I followed her into the cardiac unit.
Alfonso lay beneath a white hospital blanket. Electrodes covered his chest. An intravenous line ran into his left arm. The oxygen tubing remained beneath his nose, and the monitor showed a heart rate of fifty-one.
His eyes opened when I reached the bed.
“You look terrible,” he whispered.
“So do you.”
“Good. Honesty.”
I adjusted the blanket near his shoulder.
“Do you know what happened?”
“Someone became impatient.”
“Was it Bruno?”
His gaze drifted toward the door.
“I hired you because you notice what other people dismiss.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the only one I can give safely.”
“Bruno is under guard.”
“Bruno has men who guard the guards.”
My skin cooled.
“Then tell Enzo.”
“Enzo loves with loyalty. Loyalty is the easiest lock to pick.”
“He found the tablets.”
“Tablets prove possession. Not the hand that arranged everything.”
I took out my notebook.
“Who brought you water?”
“I saw a sleeve. Brown, perhaps. Or dark red.”
“Did you swallow anything?”
“No.”
“Then how did the medication enter your system?”
His eyes moved to the IV port in his arm.
I followed his gaze.
At the mansion, Alfonso had a saline lock placed two days earlier because his veins were fragile and he sometimes required intravenous medication. I had flushed it at seven in the evening.
The cap had been clean and sealed.
Had someone used it afterward?
I turned to the hospital chart and checked the admission notes.
The emergency staff had replaced his IV upon arrival.
Any physical evidence from the mansion line was probably gone.
“Who had access to your medical supplies?” I asked.
“Too many people.”
“Bruno?”
“Yes.”
“Marisol?”
“Yes.”
“Enzo?”
“Not intentionally.”
“Security?”
“Certain men.”
“The three women?”
“No.”
I wrote every answer.
Alfonso watched my pen.
“Your notebook is more dangerous than a gun now.”
“Then we should give it to the police.”
“No.”
I stopped writing.
“Someone tried to kill you.”
“The police will receive what they need when we know whom they serve.”
“You think officers are involved?”
“I think signatures can be purchased more cheaply than loyalty.”
His eyelids lowered.
I leaned closer.
“Why did you choose me?”
“Because Enzo needs a wife who cannot be bought.”
“I am not marrying your grandson.”
“I did not say you would.”
“You announced it to a room full of people.”
“I announced my choice. You still possess yours.”
Even half-conscious, he was impossible.
“You used me as bait.”
“Yes.”
The honesty stunned me.
He opened his eyes again.
“And I am sorry.”
I had expected manipulation.
Not apology.
“You knew someone would react?”
“I knew Bruno had investigated you before tonight. He knew your debts, your sister, your work history. Information no one requested.”
“Why me?”
“Because three months ago, you found a discrepancy in my medication log.”
I remembered.
A nighttime blood thinner had been documented as administered, but the sealed package remained in the drawer. I had assumed a staff error and corrected the chart.
“You think that was deliberate?”
“I know it was.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I needed to know whether you were careless, corrupt, or honest.”
Anger moved through me.
“You tested me with your life?”
“I tested everyone with my life. You were the only one who passed.”
The monitor beeped faster.
I checked his pulse and told him to rest.
Before closing his eyes, he whispered, “The wrong man already owns their signatures.”
“What does that mean?”
But Alfonso did not answer.
A nurse entered and told me the visit was over.
Outside the room, Enzo waited alone.
“How is he?”
“Stable. He believes the overdose was intentional.”
“Bruno?”
“He would not say directly.”
Enzo’s phone vibrated. He ignored it.
“What else?”
“He said the wrong man already owns their signatures.”
His expression changed.
“You are certain?”
“Those exact words.”
He looked toward the two guards at the end of the corridor.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere private.”
We entered an unused consultation room. He locked the door.
“What do you know about the Marchetti port agreements?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Construction contracts?”
“Nothing.”
“Shipping insurance?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
“That does not sound good.”
“It means you cannot be part of the leak.”
The word felt absurdly dramatic until he opened his phone and showed me a series of scanned documents.
Shipping authorizations.
Property transfers.
Insurance guarantees.
Each carried signatures from Enzo, Alfonso, and several business partners.
“I never signed these,” he said.
“Then they’re forged.”
“The digital authentication says they are genuine.”
“Can that be manipulated?”
“Not easily.”
I studied the pages.
The signatures looked natural, not copied. The pressure changed at the right points. The lines contained tiny hesitations and variations.
Someone had either practiced for years or obtained real signatures on documents whose contents were later replaced.
My gaze caught on the dates.
“This one was signed on March eighth.”
“Yes.”
“Where were you?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Alfonso?”
“At the mansion.”
“Was Bruno there?”
“He was with me.”
I flipped to another document.
“Who brought papers to Alfonso that day?”
Enzo stared at me.
“I don’t know.”
“I might.”
I opened my notebook to March eighth.
Every entry included time stamps.
8:10 a.m.—blood pressure.
8:20—breakfast.
9:05—call from cardiologist.
10:15—visitor, attorney’s courier, package for signature.
10:22—Alfonso complained the print was too small.
10:28—courier left.
I turned the notebook toward Enzo.
“An attorney’s courier came to the house.”
“Name?”
“He signed the visitor log.”
Enzo made a call.
“Bring me the mansion security records from March eighth. Visitor log, camera footage, gate entries.”
He ended the call.
“Anything else?”
I searched the page.
“The courier smelled like clove cigarettes.”
Enzo’s face hardened.
“What?”
“Clove cigarettes. Strong enough that Alfonso asked me to open a window.”
“Bruno smokes them.”
“He was in Philadelphia with you.”
“So he says.”
“You saw him there?”
“For part of the day.”
“Which part?”
Enzo did not answer immediately.
The truth arrived between us.
Bruno had disappeared long enough to arrange a courier.
Or to become one.
“You think he disguised himself?” I asked.
“No. Bruno would never risk being recognized.”
“Then someone else delivered the documents.”
His phone vibrated again.
This time he answered.
The voice on the other end spoke quickly.
Enzo’s eyes settled on me.
“When?”
A pause.
“Secure the room. Touch nothing.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
“The mansion’s security office caught fire.”
My throat tightened.
“The records?”
“Destroyed.”
“That fast?”
“Too fast.”
Someone knew what we were searching for before Enzo’s man reached the archive.
That meant Bruno was not working alone.
My notebook suddenly felt heavy in my hand.
It contained months of names, times, visitors, medication irregularities, and details no digital fire could erase.
Enzo looked at it.
“So that is why they need your notebook.”
The handle of the consultation room moved.
Once.
Slowly.
Enzo put one finger to his lips.
The handle moved again.
He crossed the room without sound and pulled the door open.
Nobody stood outside.
The hallway was empty.
Then I saw a folded sheet of paper on the floor.
Enzo picked it up with a handkerchief and opened it.
Three typed words appeared in the center.
GIVE HER UP.
Below the message was a photocopy of a page from my notebook.
Not a random page.
March eighth.
Someone already knew what I had written.
Someone had been inside my apartment, my locker, or Alfonso’s room.
Someone had copied my notes without my knowledge.
Enzo’s gaze lifted to mine.
“When did you last leave that notebook unattended?”
“I don’t.”
“Think.”
“At the mansion, sometimes when I showered. At the hospital during emergencies. At home when I slept.”
“Who has access to your apartment?”
“My sister.”
“Anyone else?”
“The building manager.”
His phone rang again.
He listened for less than ten seconds.
Then his face emptied of all expression.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Your sister is not answering her phone.”
The room tilted.
“Maya works nights at a bakery. She may be busy.”
“The bakery says she never arrived.”
I grabbed my phone and called.
Straight to voicemail.
I called again.
Nothing.
Enzo stepped toward me.
“We will find her.”
“How did they know about Maya?”
He looked at the copied notebook page.
“Because Bruno investigated you before Alfonso ever made his choice.”
My fear became anger so quickly it steadied me.
“What do they want?”
“You.”
“No. They want this.”
I held up the notebook.
“And now they have my sister.”
Enzo’s voice became very quiet.
“Adeline, listen to me. Do not contact anyone. Do not leave my sight. Do not give them the notebook.”
“That is easy for you to say.”
“You think I don’t understand what it means to have family used against you?”
“I think your family brought this into my life.”
His eyes took the blow without flinching.
“You are right.”
The answer silenced me.
He removed the bronze compass from his pocket and placed it on the table between us.
The gesture meant the discussion was over.
But this time, his voice held something more than authority.
A promise.
“I will bring your sister home.”
“And Alfonso?”
“I will protect him.”
“And me?”
His gaze did not move.
“You are the one person in this building they are most afraid of.”
“I’m a nurse with a notebook.”
“No,” he said. “You are the woman who saw the pill.”
A message appeared on my phone.
Unknown number.
One photograph.
Maya sat in a dark room with her wrists tied in front of her. Her face was pale, but she appeared uninjured.
Beneath the image was a sentence.
May you like
BRING THE ORIGINAL NOTEBOOK TO PIER 14 BEFORE MIDNIGHT.
COME ALONE OR YOUR SISTER SIGNS HER LAST PAGE.
