Chapter 3 - THE BROTHER WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
Adrian left before dessert.
That alone was strange.
My brother believed dessert was one of civilization’s great achievements.
He had once postponed a board vote because Teresa made cannoli.
That night he claimed an early meeting.
His chair was still warm when he disappeared.
Lily watched the doorway.
“He doesn’t like me.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“He smiles mean.”
“What does that mean?”
“He smiles with his mouth.”
I waited.
“Not eyes.”
I looked toward the empty doorway.
Again, observant.
Again, uncomfortable.
“What do you think of Marco?”
She thought.
“Grumpy.”
“Teresa?”
“Nice.”
“Me?”
“Sad.”
I regretted asking.
Treatment began the next morning.
Enrico admitted me to a private oncology floor under another name.
Marco stayed.
Lily wanted to come.
I said no.
She argued.
I won only because Teresa promised pancakes.
The infusion burned cold through my arm.
I stared at the machine.
For most of my life I had trusted weapons more than medicine.
Weapons were honest about what they intended to do.
Medicine required surrender.
Enrico came in carrying new scans.
“We’re repeating everything.”
“Why?”
“Because I want baseline imaging before the trial.”
“You already have scans.”
“I want my own.”
I looked at him.
“Aren’t the original scans yours?”
He paused.
That was enough.
“Enrico.”
He closed the door.
“The first imaging was performed at Saint Vincent Private Diagnostic Center.”
“So?”
“I reviewed it.”
“You told me the results.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
He removed his glasses.
“But the oncology consult came through Dr. Paul Renner.”
I knew the name.
Renner had treated my father.
“Who referred him?”
Enrico hesitated.
“Adrian.”
My chest went cold.
“Why?”
“You were unconscious when the first liver biopsy was scheduled.”
“What?”
“You collapsed at home two months ago.”
I remembered.
A sharp pain.
Blood pressure dropping.
Adrian insisting I go in.
Enrico had been overseas at a conference.
“I thought the biopsy was yours.”
“It should have been.”
“Why wasn’t it?”
“Adrian said you wanted discretion.”
I laughed without humor.
“That sounds like me.”
“Yes.”
That was why it worked.
Enrico continued.
“I didn’t question it enough.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want new pathology.”
I stared at him.
“You think the diagnosis is wrong?”
“No.”
Too fast.
“Then why repeat it?”
“Because you’re about to take experimental medication. I verify everything.”
I watched his face.
Doctors lied differently than criminals.
They used caution instead of silence.
“Enrico.”
He met my eyes.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
His jaw tightened.
“The cancer is real.”
“Good start.”
“But the pattern is strange.”
“How?”
“Your liver lesions are extensive on the imaging we received. Your blood work doesn’t match the expected level of decline.”
I said nothing.
“Your lungs show multiple nodules.”
“So I’m dying.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He leaned closer.
“I want tissue.”
That word became my new obsession.
Tissue.
A fresh biopsy was scheduled.
Enrico personally observed every step.
No outside lab.
No Renner.
No Adrian.
While they worked, Marco sat beside my bed.
“You think someone faked cancer?”
“No.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“The doctor said it’s real.”
“Then what?”
I looked at him.
“I don’t know yet.”
By evening, I was home.
Lily sat at the top of the stairs waiting.
“You look bad.”
“Thank you.”
She came down slowly.
“You alive?”
“So far.”
“Good.”
She handed me a folded page.
A drawing.
Three stick figures.
One small.
One large.
One with suspiciously broad shoulders and angry eyebrows.
“Who’s this?”
She pointed.
“You.”
“Why am I angry?”
“That’s your face.”
The large figure stood beside a little house.
Underneath she had written:
7 DAYS.
Then crossed out the 7.
Under it:
MORE.
I looked at her.
She shrugged.
“Maybe.”
That night, Adrian called.
“You should have told me you were starting treatment.”
“Why?”
“I’m your brother.”
“You knew I had the option.”
“I didn’t know you changed your mind.”
I stared at the fireplace.
“What would it change?”
Silence.
Then a laugh.
“Nothing.”
“Exactly.”
He changed subjects.
“Who is the girl?”
“Lily.”
“I know her name.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“Where did she come from?”
“Street.”
Adrian sighed.
“Dominic, you cannot bring random children into the family.”
“Apparently I can.”
“People will talk.”
“People always talk.”
“She’s not family.”
The sentence landed badly.
I looked toward the staircase.
“Neither was Isabella until I married her.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because this is reckless.”
I became still.
“You sound worried.”
“I am.”
“About me?”
“Of course.”
“Or about me changing my will?”
Silence.
Longer this time.
Then Adrian laughed.
“Jesus, Dominic.”
I had not changed my will.
Not yet.
But he did not know that.
“Good night.”
I hung up.
The next morning, I called my attorney.
Mara Weiss had handled every Moretti legal crisis for twelve years.
She arrived before noon.
“You look terrible.”
“Everybody says that.”
“What do you need?”
“My estate plan.”
She opened her laptop.
“Current structure leaves controlling shares of Moretti Holdings to Adrian if you die without surviving spouse or descendant.”
I knew.
After Mateo died, I had removed all child trusts.
There was nobody left.
“What if I adopt?”
Mara looked at me.
“Planning something?”
“Hypothetical.”
“You’re terrible at hypotheticals.”
“What happens?”
“An adopted child would qualify as a legal descendant if the documents are amended properly.”
I nodded.
“Draft it.”
She stared.
“Dominic.”
“Draft it.”
“Do you understand what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know this child?”
“Not enough.”
“Then why?”
Because Adrian had looked afraid when I chose treatment.
Because he cared too much about where Lily came from.
Because I wanted to see what happened when a rumor became useful.
“Draft it.”
Mara studied me.
Then nodded.
“Fine.”
I told exactly three people about the draft.
Mara.
Marco.
Enrico.
Nobody else.
By sunset, Adrian called.
My blood went cold.
“Are you changing your will?”
There it was.
I looked at Marco across the study.
He went completely still.
“Who told you?”
Adrian laughed.
“So it’s true.”
“Who told you?”
“People talk.”
“No.”
My voice changed.
“Three people knew.”
Silence.
I looked at Marco.
He shook his head immediately.
Not defensive.
Shocked.
Enrico was at the hospital.
Mara?
Unlikely.
Unless her office was compromised.
Or unless Adrian already had access to something else.
“What do you want, Adrian?”
“To stop you from making a stupid decision while you’re dying.”
“Interesting.”
“Dominic.”
“If I’m dying, why do you care?”
He did not answer.
I ended the call.
The next morning, the biopsy results came back.
Enrico did not call.
He drove to the estate.
Personally.
He walked into my study carrying a folder.
His face was pale.
Marco stood near the window.
Lily was upstairs with Teresa.
I looked at Enrico.
“Tell me.”
He set the folder down.
“You have cancer.”
I nodded.
“So nothing changed.”
“No.”
His hands tightened.
“But not the cancer described in your original pathology.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“The new tissue shows an indolent lymphoma involving your liver.”
“Meaning?”
“Serious.”
He swallowed.
“Treatable.”
The room went silent.
“How treatable?”
“Very.”
Marco whispered something in Italian.
I stared at Enrico.
“And the lung lesions?”
“Some may be inflammatory. We need more imaging.”
“The first biopsy?”
Enrico placed another page in front of me.
“We obtained the original pathology block this morning.”
I looked down.
Patient identifier.
My name.
But then:
Genetic markers inconsistent with current sample.
I looked up.
“That isn’t my tissue.”
Enrico’s voice came quietly.
“No.”
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then Marco said, “Someone switched the biopsy.”
Enrico nodded.
My thoughts went to one person.
Adrian.
But Enrico continued.
“That isn’t all.”
He opened another file.
“The original sample belongs to a patient who died six months ago.”
“Who?”
“Thomas Leary.”
I had never heard the name.
“Family?”
“No.”
“Connection?”
Enrico looked at me.
“He was treated by Dr. Paul Renner.”
Adrian’s doctor.
My brother had not merely expected me to die.
Someone had built a medical story designed to make sure I believed I was dying.
And if Lily had not asked me one simple question over burned pancakes—
May you like
Are you doing it?
—I might have refused treatment and died from a disease that was actually curable.
