Chapter 3 - The Billionaire’s Secret DossierGrant’s fingers fumbled against the glass screen of Nicholas’s custom titanium smartphone. He pressed the billionaire’s limp thumb against the sensor. The screen flashed green, unlocking a confidential dashboard glowing in the dim, atmospheric restaurant lighting.
“It’s open!” Grant yelled over the ambient murmur of shocked diners pressing against the velvet ropes.
“Put it on speaker and hold it to his ear,” Avery ordered, never breaking her rhythm as she monitored Nicholas’s breathing, keeping him focused on her voice. “Dr. Vance is three hours behind in Zurich, but his emergency override service routes straight to his bedside.”
A sharp, sterile ring tone echoed through the silent dining room.
Ring. Ring.
“Pick up, pick up,” Grant whispered, sweat rolling down his temples into his designer stubble.
On the third ring, a gruff, exhausted voice answered. “Marino? If this is about the Frankfurt acquisition, I told you—wait, this isn’t Nicholas. Who is this?”
“Dr. Vance?” Avery spoke up clearly, cutting past Grant. “This is Avery Cole, former ICU charge nurse, currently working frontline floor service at Hawthorne House in Manhattan. Patient Nicholas Marino is suffering an acute aortic dissection. Heart rate one-forty, BP eighty over fifty and dropping, severe tearing pain radiating to the left jaw and scapula.”
A heavy silence hung on the other end of the line. Dr. Vance didn't sound confused; he sounded like a man whose worst nightmare had just come true.
“Avery?” Vance muttered, recognizing professional terminology instantly. “Is he conscious?”
“Barely. He’s fighting syncope,” Avery replied.
“Listen to me very carefully,” Dr. Vance commanded, his voice sharp and absolute. “There is a black emergency lockbox in the trunk of his Maybach parked outside. Inside is a pre-loaded auto-injector of custom nitroprusside and a rapid-acting beta-blocker. If you don't drop his blood pressure within three minutes, his aorta will rupture completely. He will bleed out internally before the ambulance hits the Holland Tunnel.”
Grant turned pale as chalk. “The Maybach? The keys are at the valet station downstairs, but the keys are locked in his briefcase, and the combination is—shit, I don't know the combination!”
Before Grant could panic further, Nicholas’s hand weakly drifted toward his pants pocket. His fingernails scratched against the wool fabric.
Avery immediately leaned down, pressing her ear close to his cracked, dry lips.
“Inside… lining,” Nicholas whispered, his voice a dry rasp that barely carried over the hum of the restaurant's ventilation system. “Right pocket… emergency fob… press twice.”
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Avery didn't waste a second. She plunged her hand into his tailored trouser pocket, her fingers brushing past a sleek leather wallet until they hit a small, hidden micro-fob sewn into the fabric lining. She yanked it out, holding it up triumphantly.
“Found it.”
