Nico Bellini did not run.

That almost made me trust him less.

He turned over his weapon.

Accepted suspension.

Requested an attorney.

Did everything a guilty man with competent legal advice would do.

I did not have him dragged into a basement.

Four years earlier, I might have.

That version of Alejandro Moretti believed fear produced truth faster than patience.

Age had taught me something irritating.

Fear produces answers.

Not necessarily true ones.

So Nico stayed alive, untouched, and angry.

My outside counsel, Rebecca Sloan, conducted the interview.

I watched through video from my hospital room.

“Nico,” she said, “did you install the camera?”

“No.”

“Did you know it was there?”

“No.”

“Why did Emma Reyes see you touching the bookshelf?”

“I was checking the room.”

“Why?”

“Routine.”

“Not scheduled.”

“No.”

“Why did you become visibly distressed when the camera was found?”

He looked toward his attorney.

Then:

“Because a camera inside the boss’s house means security failed.”

Reasonable.

Too reasonable.

Rebecca changed direction.

“Where were Alejandro’s EpiPens?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you know where they were usually stored?”

“Yes.”

“Who else knew?”

“Everyone assigned close protection.”

“Did you touch his coffee?”

“No.”

“Did you prevent Emma from reaching him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She was an unvetted child entering a medical emergency.”

Rebecca stared.

“She had the medication he needed.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You saw it.”

“After I grabbed her.”

That part was true.

The problem was his next sentence.

“I thought Dr. Serrano was sixty seconds out.”

Rebecca paused.

I sat straighter.

“How did you know?”

“What?”

“That Dr. Serrano was sixty seconds away.”

Nico realized.

Too late.

Nobody had announced an arrival time.

The physician had not even reached the property until several minutes after paramedics.

Rebecca leaned forward.

“Who told you sixty seconds?”

Nico stopped speaking.

Interview over.

My longtime physician, Dr. Gabriel Serrano, visited the hospital that afternoon.

Fifty-eight.

Gray hair.

Calm voice.

He had managed my allergy since I was nineteen.

He looked at my chart.

“Lucky.”

“I’ve always hated that word.”

“You prefer skilled?”

“I prefer alive.”

He smiled.

Then his expression became serious.

“You need rest.”

“So everyone keeps saying.”

“Stress can worsen recovery.”

“Someone put cashew concentrate in my coffee.”

His face went still.

Luca had not told him that yet.

Interesting.

“Cashew?”

“Yes.”

“Confirmed?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Serrano looked down at the chart.

“How much exposure?”

“We’re determining that.”

He nodded.

Then said:

“The dose must have been significant.”

I watched him.

“Why?”

“Your reaction was severe.”

Reasonable.

Still.

Something about his certainty bothered me.

Then he added:

“You should consider transferring limited authority temporarily.”

“To whom?”

“Your uncle Raffaele.”

I almost laughed.

“You’re my physician now or governance adviser?”

“I’m telling you prolonged stress after hypoxia is unwise.”

“I was never unconscious long enough for brain injury.”

“No.”

“But you were hypotensive.”

“So?”

“So your family has succession protocols for a reason.”

There.

Second person in twenty-four hours steering toward control.

I stored it.

Did not react.

That evening Raffaele Moretti arrived.

My father’s younger brother.

Sixty-one.

Elegant.

Patient.

The man who taught me how to negotiate without raising my voice.

He kissed my forehead.

“You scared us.”

“Did I?”

“Half the family is already calling.”

“Tell them I’m alive.”

“I did.”

He pulled a chair closer.

“What happened?”

“Someone tried to kill me.”

His expression sharpened.

“You’re sure?”

“Cashew protein.”

His eyes flickered.

Very slightly.

Then:

“In the coffee?”

I stared.

I had not said coffee.

Raffaele realized a fraction too late.

Luca noticed too.

“How did you know?”

Raffaele did not hesitate.

“Serrano told me.”

Maybe.

Possible.

Then he added:

“And whoever planted that camera in the bookshelf clearly expected to watch the result.”

The room became completely still.

I had not told him the camera was in the bookshelf either.

Luca’s hand moved slightly near his jacket.

I stopped him with one glance.

Raffaele saw.

Then smiled faintly.

“Your security people called me before I came.”

“Which one?”

A pause.

“Someone from Luca’s team.”

“Name?”

“I don’t remember.”

Raffaele Moretti remembered wine vintages from nineteen years ago.

He remembered every senator who owed him a favor.

He did not forget names.

Then he placed a document beside my bed.

“Temporary medical delegation.”

I looked at it.

“If you sign, I handle Moretti Holdings for seventy-two hours.”

“Why?”

“So you can recover.”

“Who drafted it?”

“Family counsel.”

“Rebecca didn’t.”

“Internal counsel.”

Of course.

I handed it back.

“No.”

“Alejandro.”

“No.”

His expression changed.

Not anger.

Disappointment.

Like I was being childish.

“The council is nervous.”

“Let them be nervous.”

“This is not about pride.”

“No.”

I looked at him.

“It’s about signature authority.”

For the first time, my uncle stopped smiling.

That night I called Rebecca.

“Find out what happens if I’m medically incapacitated for seventy-two hours.”

“Why?”

“Because two people badly want me to be.”