Chapter 2 - The Bruises Beneath Her Uniform
At 1:17 in the morning, Damian Moretti learned that his mother had been receiving medication no one could properly account for.
The emergency physician stood outside Eleanor's hospital room holding a tablet.
“Mr. Moretti, your mother is stable.”
Damian closed his eyes.
Only briefly.
“Thank God.”
“She experienced a severe allergic reaction. Fortunately, emergency treatment was started before her condition deteriorated further.”
Damian looked toward Clara.
She sat several feet away with a fresh bandage around her palm.
Her cheek was still swollen.
The physician followed his gaze.
“Your household employee recognized the emergency and called for help?”
Damian nodded.
“She did.”
“Then her actions were appropriate. The delay caused by the interrupted treatment could have been dangerous.”
Damian's expression hardened.
“Victoria told me the injection could kill her.”
The physician frowned.
“That isn't consistent with the emergency plan we have on file.”
Damian swallowed.
“There's another question.”
He handed the doctor a copy of the medication list Victoria had provided.
“These are the pills my fiancée has been giving her.”
The doctor studied it.
His expression changed.
“Where did this list come from?”
“My mother's private physician.”
“Dr. Leland Voss?”
“Yes.”
The doctor turned the tablet toward Damian.
“We have a different list from her last independent hospital visit.”
Damian stared.
Several medications didn't match.
Some were missing.
Others had been added without the corresponding specialist notes.
The physician continued carefully.
“We'll need the pharmacy records and a full medication review. I can't determine from this alone whether an error or something intentional occurred.”
Damian nodded.
But one thought had already settled in his mind.
His mother had been growing weaker for months.
She slept through meals.
Forgot familiar names.
Sometimes struggled to recognize rooms in the house she'd lived in for thirty years.
Dr. Voss had called it progressive cognitive decline.
Victoria had called it the inevitable consequence of aging.
And Damian had believed them.
Because he had been busy.
Because he trusted them.
Because accepting that his mother was getting older had seemed easier than questioning the people caring for her.
Now he wasn't sure what to believe.
Clara sat in the hospital's small treatment room while a nurse examined her hand.
“You'll need a few stitches,” the nurse said.
Clara nodded.
She was used to being told what needed to be done.
The nurse carefully moved the sleeve of her uniform.
Then stopped.
There were bruises around Clara's wrist.
Some yellowing.
Others dark purple.
Higher up her arm was a healing burn.
The nurse looked at her.
“Clara, how did this happen?”
Clara pulled her sleeve down.
“I had an accident in the kitchen.”
The nurse didn't move.
“All of these?”
Clara stared at the floor.
The nurse spoke more gently.
“Has someone been hurting you?”
Clara's eyes filled.
But before she could answer, someone knocked on the open door.
Damian stood outside.
The nurse looked at Clara.
“Would you like him to wait?”
Clara hesitated.
Then shook her head.
“No. It's okay.”
Damian entered.
He saw her wrist.
The burn.
The faded bruises.
The small cuts along her knuckles.
His face changed.
“Clara.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Sir.”
He looked at the nurse.
“Could we have a moment?”
The nurse turned toward Clara.
“Would you like some privacy?”
Clara nodded.
The nurse stepped out, promising to return shortly.
Damian sat in the chair opposite her.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he asked, “Who did that to your arm?”
Clara looked away.
“It's nothing.”
“Clara.”
She pressed her lips together.
Damian waited.
He was not accustomed to waiting.
His entire life had been built around making decisions quickly.
But something about this young woman told him that another command would only make her retreat farther.
So he stayed quiet.
Finally, Clara whispered, “Miss Hale doesn't like it when I question her.”
Damian's stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Clara looked at her wrist.
“Three weeks ago, your mother refused her evening medication.”
Damian frowned.
“Why?”
“She said the pills made her feel strange. She wanted me to check with the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Miss Hale told me to make her take them.”
“And you refused?”
Clara nodded.
“She grabbed my arm.”
Damian stared at the bruises.
“Hard enough to do that?”
Clara didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
He looked at the burn.
“And this?”
Clara swallowed.
“Last Friday. I was bringing tea upstairs. Miss Hale asked why I'd spoken to the visiting nurse without permission.”
Damian felt his pulse quicken.
“She did that with the tea?”
Clara's eyes filled.
“She knocked the cup over while I was holding the tray.”
“On purpose?”
Clara took a long breath.
“Yes.”
Damian turned away.
He stared at the opposite wall.
In his world, men had been hurt for insults far smaller than that.
He knew exactly how easily anger could become violence.
But he also remembered Clara's expression when she'd begged him not to call his security team.
He forced himself to remain seated.
“Did you report it?”
Clara nodded.
“To whom?”
“Mr. Keene.”
Damian went still.
Russell Keene had been his security chief for nine years.
“What did he say?”
“That I shouldn't create problems for Miss Hale.”
Damian's jaw tightened.
“Did you try to tell me?”
Clara nodded again.
“I left messages with your office.”
“When?”
“Several times.”
“Why didn't you call my private number?”
Clara looked embarrassed.
“I was told household staff weren't allowed to contact you directly.”
Damian stared at her.
He had never given that instruction.
At least, he didn't remember giving it.
But now he wondered how many rules existed in his home simply because he had never bothered to question them.
Clara continued.
“Mrs. Moretti tried too.”
Damian looked up.
“What?”
“Your mother asked to speak to you last Sunday.”
“I called her Sunday.”
Clara shook her head.
“No, sir. Miss Hale answered and said she was asleep.”
Damian remembered.
Victoria had been unusually cheerful.
She'd told him Eleanor was having one of her difficult days.
She'd promised to call him when his mother felt better.
He had thanked her.
Then returned to his meeting.
Damian looked at Clara.
“What happened after that?”
Her eyes filled.
“Your mother cried.”
The words struck him harder than he expected.
Clara whispered, “She said she was afraid you were forgetting her.”
Damian closed his eyes.
He pictured Eleanor Moretti.
The woman who had raised him alone after his father's death.
The woman who had sat beside his bed when he had pneumonia at nine.
The woman who had taught him how to tie his first necktie.
She had been asking for him.
And he'd been too busy to notice.
At 3:04 a.m., Damian stepped into the hospital corridor and called Russell Keene.
Russell answered immediately.
“Boss.”
“Where are you?”
“At the estate.”
“Stay there.”
A pause.
“Something wrong?”
Damian looked through the glass toward Clara.
“Yes.”
He spoke quietly.
“Something is very wrong.”
Back at the mansion, Victoria stood in her dressing room wearing a white silk robe.
Her red gown lay across the bed.
Russell Keene stood near the doorway.
He was fifty-two, heavyset, and had worked for the Moretti organization long enough to understand which questions were dangerous.
Victoria looked at him.
“Did you get it?”
Russell nodded.
“The bottle from the upstairs cabinet is gone.”
“Good.”
“Damian has the one you were holding.”
Victoria's face tightened.
“I know.”
Russell hesitated.
“The hospital might test it.”
Victoria turned sharply.
“Then we need Dr. Voss.”
“I've already called him.”
“What did he say?”
“He said not to panic.”
Victoria laughed bitterly.
“Easy for him to say.”
She walked toward the mirror.
For a moment, she stared at her own reflection.
Then she picked up her phone.
Dialed a number.
A man answered.
“Is it done?”
Victoria's voice trembled.
“No.”
Silence.
Then the man spoke again.
“What do you mean, no?”
“Damian came home early.”
A long pause.
“And his mother?”
“Alive.”
The man swore.
Victoria closed her eyes.
“I can still fix this.”
“You have until Friday.”
“I know.”
“If Eleanor signs nothing and Damian starts asking questions, the entire transfer collapses.”
Victoria gripped the phone.
“Then we make sure the maid takes the blame.”
She ended the call.
Russell watched her.
“What transfer?”
Victoria turned slowly.
For a moment, she simply stared at him.
Then she smiled.
“Russell, darling.”
May you like
Her voice became sweet.
“There's something I need you to put in Clara Bennett's room.”
