Chapter 2 - THE DOCTOR'S TREMBLING HANDS
Dr. Richard Holland’s face turned the color of spoiled milk.
Forty-two guests held their breath.
The crystal chandeliers seemed to dim in the suffocating silence of the dining room.
Antonio Caruso did not raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The quietest words from the boss of the Philadelphia underworld were always the most dangerous.
"I asked you a question, Doctor."
Dr. Holland adjusted his collar, looking frantically toward Bianca.
"Mr. Caruso, I assure you, this is standard procedure for a patient experiencing rapid cognitive decline. I was simply following the family’s urgent request."
Antonio took a slow step forward.
"Which family?"
"You, sir." Dr. Holland’s voice cracked. "Your office called my practice three weeks ago. They said your mother was becoming a danger to herself. That she left the gas stove on. That she wandered into the street."
Evelyn gripped my hand tightly.
"Never," she whispered.
"I know, Mom," Antonio said softly. He turned his dark eyes back to the doctor. "My mother hasn't cooked on a gas stove since 1998. And she doesn't go for walks without Lily."
Bianca stepped in, her crimson silk dress rustling.
"Antonio, please. The doctor is just confused. I made the call, but I did it for you. You’re building an empire. You don’t have time to change diapers and decipher half-sentences."
The room gasped.
I felt my blood run cold.
Antonio stared at his fiancée as if looking at a stranger.
"You forged my name to lock my mother in a facility?"
"I protected your legacy!" Bianca snapped, finally dropping the sweet, concerned act. "Your men are losing respect for you, Antonio. You skip meetings to take her to physical therapy. You cancelled the Chicago merger because she had a mild fever. You’re a boss, but you’re acting like a nursemaid!"
Antonio reached into his tailored jacket.
Every bodyguard in the room subtly shifted their weight.
But Antonio didn't pull a weapon. He pulled out a heavy, silver pocket watch.
It had belonged to his late father, Vincenzo Caruso.
"My father," Antonio said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "built this family from a single bakery. He always told me that a man who throws away his foundation will watch his house collapse."
He opened the watch.
"Bianca, the wedding is off."
Bianca stumbled back. "You can't be serious. Over this?"
"Pack your things. You have one hour to leave this house."
"Antonio!"
"Marco," Antonio called out.
His underboss, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar over his left brow, stepped from the shadows.
"Yes, Boss."
"Escort Miss Romano to her room. Make sure she only takes what she brought into this house."
Bianca’s face contorted with rage. "You're making a mistake! My father and his associates won't stand for this humiliation!"
"Let them sit, then," Antonio replied coldly.
As Marco took Bianca’s arm, she shot a venomous glare at Evelyn, then at me.
Dr. Holland tried to slip toward the door.
"Not you, Doctor," Antonio said without looking at him. "You and I are going to have a long conversation about medical ethics in my study."
The guests began to rapidly whisper, gathering their coats. The engagement party was effectively a funeral.
I helped Evelyn sit down. She was shaking violently.
"It's okay, Mrs. Caruso," I soothed, handing her a glass of water.
She took a sip, but her eyes were fixed on the silver pocket watch Antonio had left resting on the dining table.
She reached out with her trembling left hand and touched the smooth silver casing.
"Lily," she whispered.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Look."
I leaned closer.
The back of the watch had a hidden latch. Evelyn pressed her thumb against it, a motion she must have done a thousand times before her stroke.
The back popped open.
Inside wasn't a clock face. It was a tiny, folded piece of parchment and a miniature photograph.
"What is that?" I asked softly.
Evelyn’s breathing hitched.
She pulled out the photograph. It was black and white, taken perhaps thirty years ago.
It showed Vincenzo Caruso holding a baby.
But it wasn't Antonio. Antonio would have been a teenager when this photo was taken.
I turned the tiny parchment over. There was a name written in Vincenzo's elegant, sloping handwriting.
Marco.
I looked up just as the heavy oak doors of the dining room swung shut.
The man Antonio trusted with his life—the man currently escorting an enraged Bianca upstairs—was Antonio's secret half-brother.
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And as I looked closely at Marco's signature on a nearby guest book, I realized the handwriting on the guardianship papers didn't match Bianca's.
It matched his.
