Chapter 2 - THE DOCTOR WHO TREATED A DISEASE THAT DIDN’T EXIST
-2
By eleven o’clock, six people had already noticed Adrian was different.
Mrs. Ricci noticed because he ate breakfast.
The cook noticed because he asked for eggs instead of black coffee.
His driver noticed because Adrian remembered the name of the man’s youngest son.
Two guards noticed because he looked them directly in the eyes.
Dominic noticed everything.
The boardroom occupied the third floor of the estate’s east wing, a space Vittoria called “the library” when outsiders visited because a respectable family apparently did not hold corporate meetings beside portraits of dead men.
Adrian walked in without assistance.
Conversation stopped.
Moretti Shipping legally operated ports, freight brokerage, warehouses, and commercial property from Boston to New Jersey.
What happened outside legal paperwork belonged to quieter conversations.
Adrian had inherited both worlds from Salvatore.
For years he intended to separate them.
That was where the first conflicts began.
His father had agreed in principle.
Vittoria had not.
Dominic called Adrian naive.
Then Salvatore died.
And Adrian became tired.
The chair at the head of the table had technically remained his.
For eighteen months, Dominic sat beside it.
For the last six months, Dominic had quietly begun sitting in it whenever Adrian missed meetings.
Today Dominic was already there.
He stood when Adrian entered.
“Brother.”
Adrian looked at the chair.
Dominic understood.
His jaw tightened.
Then he moved.
No one spoke.
Adrian sat.
A simple act.
Yet he watched three executives exchange glances.
Interesting.
Dominic opened a report.
“We can postpone.”
“No.”
“You should recover.”
“From sleeping?”
Dominic smiled thinly.
Vittoria participated by video from the family’s Manhattan apartment.
Her silver hair was arranged perfectly.
At sixty-three, she had the elegant cruelty of someone who had never been required to hurry.
“My darling,” she said, “you look better.”
“Thank you.”
“Dominic says you slept.”
“He reports quickly.”
Dominic’s pen stopped.
Vittoria gave the soft laugh she used when smoothing tension.
“Your brother worries.”
“I’m lucky.”
The meeting began.
Adrian listened.
That was all.
For the first twenty minutes, he barely spoke.
But he understood the numbers.
That alone felt miraculous.
A shipping acquisition he vaguely remembered approving had been delayed.
A warehouse redevelopment had exceeded budget.
A holding company named Bellhaven Capital appeared in three transactions.
Adrian frowned.
“When did we acquire Bellhaven?”
Silence.
The CFO looked at Dominic.
Wrong move.
Adrian saw.
“I asked you, Peter.”
Peter Sloan cleared his throat.
“Bellhaven is not an acquisition, sir. It is a strategic affiliate.”
“Owned by?”
Another glance at Dominic.
“Private interests.”
“Whose?”
Dominic intervened.
“We discussed this.”
“When?”
“October.”
Adrian searched memory.
October was mostly blank.
The worst month.
He had slept perhaps two hours per night.
“What did I approve?”
Dominic pushed a binder.
“Joint property management.”
Adrian opened.
His signature.
His stomach tightened.
It looked correct.
Was it?
Maybe.
He remembered nothing.
Then saw witness:
Dominic Moretti.
Vittoria Moretti.
Interesting.
“What percentage does Bellhaven receive?”
“Eight.”
“For management?”
“Yes.”
“Who owns it?”
Dominic’s voice cooled.
“Why are we doing this now?”
“Because I asked.”
Silence.
Vittoria spoke from screen.
“Adrian, perhaps today isn’t—”
“Mother.”
She stopped.
“Who owns Bellhaven?”
For the first time, Vittoria’s expression emptied.
Then Peter Sloan answered.
“A trust.”
“Beneficiary?”
He looked miserable.
“Dominic.”
There.
Eight percent skim? Not necessarily illegal but related-party.
Adrian slowly turned.
“You own the company receiving management fees from Moretti properties?”
Dominic sighed.
“We structured compensation because I took over your workload.”
“Board approved?”
“Yes.”
“Did I?”
“You signed.”
That sentence.
Adrian looked at signature.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
“I want every Bellhaven document in my office.”
Dominic’s jaw hardened.
“Fine.”
“And all payments since formation.”
“Fine.”
Vittoria smiled.
“Good. Now perhaps we can—”
“Not finished.”
The room changed.
Adrian continued.
“Every authority transfer executed during my medical leave.”
Peter swallowed.
“That is extensive.”
“So is three years.”
Dominic leaned back.
“What are you doing?”
“Working.”
No answer available to that.
After meeting, Dominic followed Adrian into hallway.
“You’re making people nervous.”
“Good.”
“You think one night’s sleep makes you cured?”
“No.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
Adrian turned.
For one moment he wanted to ask:
What did you put in my tea?
Instead:
“Did you?”
Dominic frowned.
“Did I what?”
“Think I was cured?”
“You’re sick.”
There.
Not were.
Are.
Dominic needed the condition present.
Adrian smiled.
“I’m seeing Rinaldi today.”
That caught him.
“Why?”
“Medical review.”
“You already saw him Thursday.”
“I forgot.”
Dominic stared.
“Exactly.”
Then walked away.
Adrian did not go to Rinaldi.
Mateo arranged an outside physician.
Dr. Serena Vale was forty-eight and worked for a private toxicology consultancy that specialized in occupational exposure and unexplained medication reactions.
She had treated one of Mateo’s cousins years earlier.
No Moretti connection.
They met in a leased medical office forty miles away.
Adrian brought blood samples taken by an independent nurse, hair samples, medication lists, and sealed tea.
Dr. Vale did not look impressed by his surname.
Good.
“Your symptoms?”
He listed.
“Three years?”
“Progressively.”
“Sleep studies?”
“Yes.”
“Results?”
“Severe fragmentation without clear cause.”
“Medication?”
He handed list.
She frowned.
“Who prescribed all this?”
“Dr. Sebastian Rinaldi.”
Her expression changed slightly.
“Family physician?”
“Yes.”
“Specialty?”
“Internal medicine.”
“Who coordinated your neurologists?”
“Rinaldi.”
“Who provided them records?”
“His office.”
Adrian sat straighter.
A system.
Not independent doctors seeing Adrian directly over time.
Most specialists received summaries routed through Rinaldi.
Dr. Vale examined the tea.
“We’ll test broadly.”
“How long?”
“Initial screening tomorrow.”
“I need certainty.”
“You need patience.”
He almost laughed.
No one told Adrian Moretti that.
She added:
“Do not drink anything you suspect.”
“Obviously.”
“Do not abruptly stop prescribed medications without proper medical review either.”
Important.
“We’ll evaluate them separately.”
Adrian nodded.
Then she asked:
“Has anyone suggested your symptoms are psychiatric?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Rinaldi first.”
“Diagnosis?”
“Stress-induced insomnia, then generalized anxiety, then possible trauma-related hyperarousal.”
“Any psychiatrist independently diagnose?”
“One.”
“Based on?”
“Interview.”
“How long?”
“Forty minutes.”
Dr. Vale made no judgment.
Good.
Then:
“Do you use alcohol?”
“Rarely.”
“Recreational drugs?”
“No.”
“Stimulants?”
“Coffee.”
“How much?”
“Too much.”
“Because tired.”
“Yes.”
She wrote.
Then:
“Who prepares food?”
“Estate staff.”
“Who prepares tea?”
Adrian paused.
“Usually my brother delivers it.”
Her pen stopped.
“Usually?”
“Nightly.”
“For how long?”
“Three years.”
“Who instructed that?”
“Rinaldi.”
“Why your brother?”
“I never asked.”
Dr. Vale looked directly at him.
“That may be the most important sentence you’ve said.”
Adrian left with more questions than answers.
At the estate, Hannah Carter waited outside his study.
He almost walked past.
“Mr. Moretti.”
He stopped.
She looked frightened.
Dark hair pulled back.
Plain gray uniform.
Lily’s eyes.
“Is Lily in trouble?”
“No.”
“She said she slept in your room.”
“She invaded.”
Hannah flushed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Then:
“Has she said anything about last night?”
Hannah’s face changed.
“No.”
Too fast.
Adrian watched.
“Hannah.”
Her hands tightened around an apron she was not wearing.
“What?”
“Do you know something about my tea?”
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
Truth perhaps.
“About Dominic?”
Silence.
There.
Adrian felt anger rise.
“Come inside.”
She did not move.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because my husband told me never to be alone in a room with a Moretti if they started asking the right questions.”
Adrian became still.
“Your husband is dead.”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
Hannah looked at him.
“Elias Carter.”
Adrian knew the name.
Not well.
An internal forensic accountant hired by Salvatore four years earlier.
Brilliant.
Quiet.
Killed in a highway accident three years ago.
The same month Adrian’s insomnia became unbearable.
“What did Elias tell you?”
Hannah’s face collapsed.
“He told me that if you ever stopped sleeping, it meant he had failed.”
Adrian forgot how to breathe.
Before he could ask anything else, his private phone rang.
Dr. Vale.
Too soon.
He answered.
“Adrian.”
Her voice was different.
“We ran an expedited screen on the tea.”
“And?”
“It contains compounds that should not be there.”
His hand tightened.
“What compounds?”
“I’m not discussing details over an unsecured line.”
“Would they interfere with sleep?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Tremors?”
“Yes.”
“Memory?”
“Yes.”
“Long-term cognitive problems?”
“Potentially.”
The room narrowed.
Then Dr. Vale said:
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“One compound is chemically consistent with something listed in your current prescribed medication history.”
Adrian stared at Hannah.
“What does that mean?”
“It means whoever contaminated your tea may have wanted abnormal levels to look medically explainable.”
A cover inside the treatment.
Adrian’s voice dropped.
“Who prescribed that medication?”
Dr. Vale checked.
“Sebastian Rinaldi.”
Adrian ended call.
Hannah was crying silently.
“What did Elias know?”
She shook her head.
“Not here.”
“Why?”
“Because he said the walls belonged to your mother.”
Adrian felt cold.
“My mother?”
May you like
Hannah whispered:
“Elias never thought Dominic was the person at the top.”
