Chapter 4 - The Ghost of the FDR
The realization hit me like a physical blow. Nico, the man who had taken a bullet for me in Chicago twelve years ago, was bleeding in the dark four floors beneath my bed while I lay here playing dead.
"He saved my life on that highway," I said, my teeth grinding together so hard my jaw throbbed. "He intentionally swerved the Bentley into the concrete divider so the driver's side took the impact instead of mine. That’s why he survived."
"Anthony knows Nico has the physical keycard," Grace said. "If Nico breaks before sunrise, Anthony won't need Veronica or Dr. Harrison. He’ll take control of the Moretti Syndicate legally by triggering the emergency succession clause."
"We move tonight," I declared, tearing the IV lines from my arm. The sharp pain surged through my torso, but I shoved it down under pure, unadulterated rage. "How many guards does Anthony have in the basement?"
"Two," Grace said, pulling a heavy steel wrench and a pair of industrial zip-ties from her cleaning cart. "Professional mercenaries. They swap shifts at three in the morning."
"And Veronica?"
"She’s arriving at midnight," Grace said, checking her watch. "She thinks she’s coming to watch you draw your last breath. She brought her personal photographer to take pictures of her 'grieving' beside your body for the morning papers."
I looked at Grace, assessing the terrifying precision in her actions. "Why are you doing this, Grace? You could have walked away. You could have taken a bribe from Anthony and lived comfortably for the rest of your life."
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Grace paused, her hand hovering over the door handle. She turned slowly, her eyes pitch black in the dim hospital light.
"Because ten years ago, your cousin Anthony ruined my father’s business and drove him to jump off the Manhattan Bridge," she said, her voice dropping to a icy whisper. "I didn't take this cleaning job to earn a paycheck, Dominic. I took it to wait for the day your empire cracked open so I could watch Anthony burn."
