Chapter 3 - THE FILE THAT DESTROYED MY CAREER
The twins stayed overnight.
Damien stayed too.
He refused the private executive suite the hospital offered and sat between Leo and Nico’s cribs in the pediatric observation room.
I should have left.
I had missed half my shift.
My manager had already texted three times.
The third message simply said:
DON’T COME BACK TOMORROW.
There went my rent.
Again.
I was staring at the message when Damien spoke behind me.
“You lost your job.”
I locked my phone.
“No.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I was fired.”
“Because you came here?”
“Because I left a private dinner during service.”
“You saved two babies.”
“Restaurants have policies.”
His expression suggested he did not understand any policy that treated him as irrelevant.
“Tell me the owner’s name.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I am not letting a mafia boss threaten my former manager.”
One corner of his mouth moved.
“That wasn’t what I said.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
For the first time since the poisoning, Damien almost smiled.
Then his eyes went to Leo.
The baby was asleep with a monitor wrapped around one tiny foot.
Nico slept beside him.
They were seven months old.
Identical.
Dark hair.
Long lashes.
Tiny versions of their father if somebody had removed the intimidation and added drool.
I sat in the chair near the wall.
“Where’s their mother?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Damien’s face closed.
I immediately regretted it.
“I’m sorry.”
“She died.”
His voice remained level.
“When?”
“Three days after they were born.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened?”
“Blood clot.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at Nico.
“Her name was Sofia.”
Something about the way he said it told me he was not ready for more.
I did not ask.
Instead he asked about me.
“Why were you really dismissed?”
“I told you.”
“You told me the public version.”
I looked at him.
He sat across from me.
No guards in the room.
No suit jacket.
White shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms.
For the first time, he looked less like Damien Moretti and more like a father who had not slept.
I exhaled.
“After Mason’s third episode, I copied his therapy notes.”
“Was that allowed?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the medication administration record kept changing.”
Damien’s attention sharpened.
“I noticed his sessions were worse on certain days. His body responses were too consistent to be random.”
“So you checked his medication.”
“I wasn’t supposed to have access to the detailed pharmacy log.”
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
I looked at my hands.
“I photographed three pages.”
“What did they show?”
“That the concentration listed in the original orders didn’t match what appeared on administration days.”
“Meaning somebody changed it.”
“Yes.”
“Rourke?”
“I couldn’t prove it.”
“What happened to the pictures?”
“My phone disappeared from my locker.”
Damien’s face hardened.
“Convenient.”
“Very.”
“The hospital believed him.”
“He was department director. Principal investigator on a multimillion-dollar research program.”
“And you?”
“Twenty-three. Newly licensed. Six months into my first real job.”
I smiled bitterly.
“Guess who looked more credible.”
He said nothing.
“The review board concluded I had improperly accessed medical records and exaggerated clinical concerns after being disciplined.”
“Were you disciplined before reporting?”
“No.”
“They changed the timeline.”
“Yes.”
“And you couldn’t prove it.”
“No.”
“Did Rourke profit from the study?”
I looked at him.
“I never knew.”
Damien stood.
He crossed to the window.
“Mateo can find out.”
“That is not how normal people investigate things.”
“I’m not normal people.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
He looked over his shoulder.
This time, the smile appeared.
Small.
Gone quickly.
His phone buzzed.
Mateo entered two minutes later.
His expression was bad.
Damien noticed immediately.
“What?”
“Hospital toxicology confirmed the drug in both bottles.”
“Both?”
I stood.
“There were two bottles?”
Mateo nodded.
“Separate formula bottles. Same contaminant.”
That mattered.
Accident became nearly impossible.
Damien’s face went cold.
“Who prepared them?”
“Rosa.”
“Where is she?”
“At your house under guard.”
“Was she searched?”
“Yes.”
“Anything?”
Mateo hesitated.
“Twenty thousand dollars in cash.”
Damien’s eyes closed.
I knew what he was thinking.
Nanny.
Trusted caregiver.
Money.
Easy answer.
Too easy.
“Where did she get it?” I asked.
Mateo looked at me.
“She says her sister gave it to her.”
“Does her sister have twenty thousand dollars?”
“No.”
Damien turned toward the door.
“I’m going home.”
I stepped forward.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
“If Rosa poisoned them, why would she poison both?”
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“If someone wanted the babies sick, maybe. But if she intended murder, contaminating both increases the chance somebody notices a common cause.”
Mateo folded his arms.
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s helpful.”
I ignored him.
“Who knew what the babies would drink at the restaurant?”
Damien answered.
“Rosa. Me. Mateo. Dr. Rourke.”
“Why Rourke?”
“He oversees their feeding plan.”
My eyes snapped toward him.
“Why?”
“Nico had reflux. Leo had sensory feeding difficulties after the NICU.”
“Rourke became their doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Who recommended him?”
Damien went still.
Mateo answered.
“Mr. Moretti’s younger brother.”
Damien looked at him.
“Sal.”
Salvatore Moretti.
I knew the name.
Anyone in Chicago did.
Damien’s younger brother ran several Moretti restaurants and legitimate shipping operations.
Publicly charming.
Privately rumored to be almost as dangerous as Damien.
“Where is he?” Damien asked.
Mateo checked his phone.
“He left Bellavita twenty minutes before the twins reacted.”
Damien’s face did not change.
“Why?”
“Said he had a meeting.”
“He didn’t say goodbye.”
“No.”
That apparently mattered.
A nurse entered.
“Mr. Moretti? Detective Alvarez is here.”
Damien nodded.
“Send him in.”
Detective Lena Alvarez turned out to be a forty-something woman in a raincoat who looked unimpressed by wealth, armed men, or Damien Moretti.
I liked her immediately.
She questioned everyone separately.
When it was my turn, she asked about Rourke.
I told her everything.
She wrote for nearly twenty minutes.
Then:
“Do you still have anything from your Lakeshore case?”
“No.”
“Emails?”
“My employee account was deleted.”
“Personal notes?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
Her pen stopped.
“I kept a notebook.”
Damien was standing by the door.
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
“When were you last there?”
“Yesterday.”
Alvarez closed her notebook.
“We should retrieve it.”
I gave a humorless laugh.
“Assuming my landlord hasn’t changed the locks.”
Damien’s expression shifted.
“What?”
“Eviction.”
I instantly regretted saying it.
“Forget it.”
He did not.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“I’m behind.”
“How much?”
“No.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“No?”
“You are not paying my rent.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You were about to.”
He actually looked offended.
“I was about to ask how much.”
“That is the first step toward paying it.”
Detective Alvarez looked between us.
“I’m going to pretend this conversation is relevant because the notebook is in the apartment.”
We left the hospital at noon.
Police first.
Damien’s SUV behind them.
My apartment building was in Albany Park.
Third floor.
Cheap.
Old.
Mine.
At least for another day.
The door was already open.
I stopped.
“I locked that.”
Alvarez pulled her weapon.
“Stay back.”
Damien moved in front of me instinctively.
Officers entered.
Thirty seconds later, Alvarez called:
“Clear.”
I walked inside.
My living room had been destroyed.
Couch cushions sliced.
Kitchen drawers emptied.
Closet ripped apart.
My bedroom looked worse.
I ran to the dresser.
Bottom drawer.
Empty.
“No.”
Damien entered.
“What?”
“My notebook.”
I pulled clothes out.
“It was here.”
Alvarez examined the broken lock.
“Someone came looking for something.”
Damien stared at the empty drawer.
Then at me.
“If Rourke’s old case was unrelated to my sons, nobody would care about your notebook.”
I stopped moving.
He was right.
Alvarez looked at Damien.
“We need Rourke located.”
Mateo’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“Rourke’s gone.”
Damien’s jaw tightened.
“Gone where?”
“His house is empty. Phone off. Car found at O’Hare.”
Alvarez swore.
Then Mateo added:
“There’s something else.”
He showed Damien his phone.
Security footage.
Bellavita kitchen corridor.
Seven twelve that evening.
Rourke standing beside the twins’ diaper bag.
And beside him—
Salvatore Moretti.
Damien stared at his brother’s face.
Neither man was smiling.
Sal was handing Rourke something small.
A white packet.
Damien’s voice became almost inaudible.
May you like
“Find my brother.”
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