Chapter 3 - Blood Money and Broken Spines—Why Three Nurses Disappeared Before Me
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The next morning broke over Lake Michigan not with sunshine, but with a suffocating, slate-gray gloom. Fog clung to the manicured boxwood hedges of the Alfieri estate like damp gauze, muffling the distant roar of the surf and making the four-story stone manor feel less like a home and more like a high-security sanatorium.
I woke up at 5:30 AM in my private quarters—a sterile, drafty room adjoining Nico’s suite that had clearly once been used by personal valets.
Before I even brushed my teeth, I pulled the worn leather boot from the back of my closet, reached inside the toe, and checked the sterile specimen bag. The two white pills were still there. Safe. Next to them lay my notebook, filled with dense, hurried medical shorthand documenting Nico's vitals, pulse ox readings, and the suspicious chemical swaps over the past two weeks.
My phone vibrated on the wooden nightstand.
The screen displayed an incoming FaceTime call from Cicero. My chest tightened with a mixture of warmth and absolute dread. I smoothed my messy hair, forced the warmest, most relaxed smile I could muster onto my face, and tapped the green button.
"Morning, bug," I said.
The pixelated screen flickered to life. Sitting at our scratched Formica kitchen table, bundled in a faded red fleece hoodie, was Wes. In the background, Mrs. Gable—our sixty-year-old neighbor whom I paid twenty dollars a day to watch him—was bustling over a bubbling pot of instant oatmeal.
Wes looked paler than he had forty-eight hours ago. The delicate skin beneath his large brown eyes was shadowed with a faint, bruised purplish tint—a clear clinical sign that his blood oxygen saturation was dipping below ninety percent.
"Adeline!" Wes’s voice was thin, but his smile lit up the tiny screen. He proudly held up a sheet of white construction paper covered in lopsided crayon drawings. "Look. I drew the lake house you live in. But I gave it a dragon on the roof to guard the tower."
A lump rose in my throat so large it felt like swallowing broken glass.
"A dragon, huh?" I laughed softly, keeping my voice light and steady. "Does the dragon eat the people who make too much noise in the hallways?"
"Only the mean ones," Wes said solemnly. Then his small brow furrowed as he leaned closer to his cracked tablet camera. "Adeline... your eyes look sleepy. Did you stay up late doing homework again?"
"Just taking care of Mr. Alfieri, sweetie. He’s... working very hard to get better."
"Is he nice to you?" Wes asked. "If he’s mean, you should tell him that being grumpy makes your heart work backward. That’s what Dr. Patel told me."
"He’s not mean," I lied gently, thinking of Nico’s cold glares, his bitter silences, and the sudden, fierce intensity with which he had looked at me last night. "He’s just had a very rough time, Wes. Like you when you had your stitches. But we’re going to get him through it. And then, in three weeks, you and I are going to the hospital in Chicago, and Dr. Morrison is going to fix your valve once and for all."
Wes nodded, looking down at his paper. "I’m not scared of the surgery, Addy. I just don't like the smell of the sleep gas. It smells like rotten strawberries."
"I know, baby. But I'll be right there holding your hand until you close your eyes, okay? Every single second."
Mrs. Gable stepped into the camera frame, wiping her soapy hands on a kitchen towel. Her lined, worn face looked grave as she tilted the phone away from Wes.
"Adeline," Mrs. Gable whispered, her voice crackling through the cheap speaker. "The letter from the clinic arrived yesterday. The pre-op clearance panel is scheduled for next Thursday. They need the final verification of insurance coverage from your employer’s HR department by Monday afternoon, or they forfeit his surgical suite reservation."
My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. *Monday afternoon.* Today was Friday.
"I’ll have it, Mrs. Gable," I promised, my knuckles whitening around the phone. "I’ll personally get the corporate benefits administrator to stamp the authorization. Tell Wes I love him."
"We’re praying for you, child. Be careful in that big house."
The call ended.
I stood in the cold bedroom for a long moment, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, my hair pulled back into its utilitarian bun, my scrub top hanging slightly loose over my shoulders from three months of missed lunches and endless stress.
*Monday afternoon.*
If Camille had me thrown out of this house today, the Alfieri corporate benefits portal would flag my termination within twenty-four hours. Wes’s surgical date—the one we had waited fourteen agonizing months to secure—would be wiped from Northwestern's surgical schedule. And my little brother wouldn't survive another winter with an oxygen saturation level in the low eighties.
"Then I don't leave," I whispered to my reflection. "Not until Nico is safe, and Wes is saved."
I grabbed my stethoscope, stepped out of my room, and walked into Nico’s master suite.
The room smelled faintly of cedar, cold rain, and the rich, dark roast coffee that Edna had already delivered on a silver tray. Nico was already awake. He was seated upright in his wheelchair near the expansive bay window, wearing a crisp charcoal sweater and dark jeans. His hair was damp from a morning wash, and his jaw was set like reinforced concrete.
On the mahogany desk in front of him sat a leather portfolio, open to reveal several official-looking documents with gold corporate seals.
Beside the desk stood Edna Hollis.
The sixty-three-year-old housekeeper stood rigid, her hands folded over her gray apron, her pale blue eyes cold and unreadable. When I entered the room, her gaze flicked to me with an icy disdain that was impossible to mistake.
"You're late, nurse," Edna said flatly.
"My shift begins at 6:30 AM, Mrs. Hollis," I replied, checking my wrist watch with professional indifference. "It is currently 6:28 AM. I am two minutes early."
Edna gave a tight, venomous sniff. "Miss Ashcroft has requested a full inventory of the medical dispensary keys. She wishes to know why clinical supplies were found scattered across the ground floor foyer last night."
"Because Miss Ashcroft attempted to physically assault a patient in my care," I said calmly, walking past her to place my fingers on Nico’s wrist to check his resting radial pulse. His pulse was sixty-four beats per minute—strong, regular, and significantly less sluggish than it had been forty-eight hours ago. "And as the attending healthcare provider on record, I intervened to prevent physical trauma. If Miss Ashcroft has a clinical question regarding my methods, she is welcome to submit a formal inquiry to the Illinois Department of Financial and Professional Regulation."
Edna’s thin lips curled into a sneer. "You think you’re very clever, girl. But clever people don't last long in this household. Ask Henderson. Ask Nurse Kowalski."
At the mention of those names, Nico’s hand slammed down onto the mahogany desk. The sharp *bang* made Edna flinch, her sneer instantly dissolving into nervous caution.
"Get out, Edna," Nico said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of an executioner’s axe.
"Mr. Alfieri, Miss Ashcroft instructed me—"
"I don't give a damn what Camille instructed you," Nico growled, turning his head toward the elderly housekeeper with eyes so cold they could have frozen gasoline. "This is still my house. You were hired to polish silver and change bed linens, not spy on my medical staff. If I hear your shoes scuffing outside my door again without my summons, I will have your pension revoked and your family’s lease on the Kenosha property terminated by noon. Get out."
Edna paled dramatically. She gave a stiff, trembling nod, backed out of the room, and closed the heavy oak door behind her with unprecedented gentleness.
The silence returned.
Nico let out a long, ragged exhale, running a hand through his dark hair. "God, I hate this house."
"Then don't let them turn it into your casket," I said, stepping around the desk to inspect the paperwork spread before him. "What are these?"
"Marco just sent them up via his courier," Nico muttered, pushing the documents toward me with the tip of his pen. "They’re proxy authorizations for the upcoming board meeting of Alfieri Logistics. They want me to sign over emergency executive voting privileges to Marco for the next quarter. They’re claiming that my... 'agitated public behavior' at the gala last night proved I’m suffering from acute post-traumatic stress and cognitive decline."
I picked up the first sheet. The legal language was dense, vicious, and meticulously crafted. It cited my own intervention last night—describing the incident as *'an uncontrolled physical altercation involving household staff and the prospective bride, precipitated by the patient’s severe emotional instability.'*
"They're using what happened on the floor to paint you as legally incompetent," I said, my blood running cold. "If you sign this, Marco has complete legal authority to liquidate the shipping terminals in Gary, Indiana."
"I’m not signing it," Nico said darkly. "But look at the second document, Adeline."
I flipped the page. My heart stopped.
It was an official termination of contract notice for *Marsh, Adeline R., RN*. Attached to it was an administrative directive revoking my security clearance, commanding my immediate eviction from the premises by 5:00 PM today, and terminating all associated employee benefits—including dependent health insurance coverage.
At the bottom of the page, the signature line for the Chief Executive Officer—Nico Alfieri—was completely blank.
Above it, however, was already stamped the pre-authorized signature of Camille Ashcroft, acting as *Family Liaison and Healthcare Representative*.
"She tried to slip it into the morning courier packet," Nico explained, watching my face as the color drained from my skin. "She assumed I would just sign the stack of papers without reading them, the way I did two months ago when I was so drugged up I couldn't remember what day of the week it was."
My hands shook slightly as I held the termination letter. The image of Wes—pale, fragile, holding his crayon dragon—flashed behind my retinas.
"If this goes through..." my voice broke, barely a whisper. "Wes loses his surgery date on Monday."
Nico leaned forward in his wheelchair. He reached out and, for the first time, took my wrist.
His hand was warm, his grip surprisingly gentle compared to the raw power behind it. The calluses on his palm were rough against my skin.
"Look at me, Adeline," he commanded quietly.
I forced myself to meet his eyes.
"Nobody touches your brother," Nico said, his voice ringing with absolute, unyielding conviction. "You stood between me and a room full of people who wanted to watch me crawl on the floor like a dog. You put your own neck in the noose to stop that slap. I don't forget debts, Adeline. In my world, blood pays for blood, but loyalty... loyalty is bought with everything I have."
He picked up a heavy, gold-plated fountain pen from the desk.
With one swift, violent stroke, he slashed a thick black line across the termination notice. Then, at the bottom of the page, in bold, jagged script that looked like carved granite, he wrote:
*CONTRACT IRREVOCABLE. EXCLUSIVE MEDICAL SUPERVISION RETAINED UNDER PERSONAL EXECUTIVE RETAINER. - N. ALFIERI.*
He tossed the pen onto the desk and slid the paper back into the leather binder.
"You're not leaving this house until I say you leave," Nico said, looking at me with a dark, steady intensity that sent a strange, electric shiver through my chest. "And on Monday morning, my personal attorney, Dominic Russo, will personally deliver a certified check for three hundred thousand dollars to Northwestern Children’s Hospital to cover your brother’s surgery in full—cash, upfront, untouchable by insurance companies."
I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. Tears rushed to my eyes, burning behind my lids, but this time I couldn't stop one single, hot drop from spilling over my cheek.
"Why?" I choked out. "You don't even know me, Nico. You’ve known me for three months, and for the first two and a half, we barely exchanged ten words."
"Because for three months, you’re the only person who hasn't lied to me," he said simply. "You didn't look at my legs with pity. You didn't smile at me while slipping poison into my glass. And last night, when everyone else looked away, you treated me like a man."
He glanced toward the heavy bronze eagle sitting on the mahogany bookshelf across the room.
May you like
"Now," Nico whispered, his expression hardening back into the lethal, calculating Don he had been born to be. "Edna goes to the basement at midnight. Tonight, we find out who cut my brakes."
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