Chapter 4 - THE MAN AT THE DOOR
Matteo Marchetti knocked like a man who had never once been kept waiting.
Three measured taps.
Not loud.
Not impatient.
Certain.
Wren stood beside Enzo’s desk with a sealed pill in one hand and the memory of Gabe’s voice still burning in her ear.
At St. Agnes.
With Hale.
The night Enzo got shot.
Luca moved first.
His hand disappeared inside his jacket.
Enzo lifted two fingers.
Stop.
Luca froze.
“Open it,” Enzo said.
Wren stared at him.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Your brother’s—”
“Uncle.”
“Your uncle may be helping poison you.”
“Which is why I want to hear what he says.”
“You can hear him from the other side of a locked door.”
Enzo looked at her.
“Would you?”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
No.
She would want the truth close enough to touch too.
Luca opened the door.
Matteo Marchetti entered carrying the smell of rain and expensive tobacco.
He was in his late fifties, silver at the temples, handsome in the controlled way powerful men often were. His overcoat looked tailored. His shoes were spotless despite the weather. He took in the room with one sweep of dark eyes.
Luca.
Wren.
The medication on the desk.
Enzo in the wheelchair.
Nothing in his expression changed.
That frightened Wren more than if he had reached for a weapon.
“The power problem is handled,” Matteo said. “I’ve put men on the west wall.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“No. You were busy.”
His eyes moved to Wren.
“And you must be the new nurse.”
“Caregiver.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Tonight? Apparently.”
A faint smile appeared.
“So this is the famous Wren Hart.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Famous?”
“Enzo was selective.”
“That’s one word for conducting surveillance.”
Matteo looked at Enzo.
“Already told her?”
“Enough.”
“Interesting.”
Wren watched him carefully.
No surprise.
He knew Enzo had investigated her.
Maybe he had read the file too.
Matteo moved toward the desk.
Wren put her hand over the bagged tablet.
His gaze dropped to her fingers.
“What’s that?”
“Something I’m testing.”
“For?”
“Because I enjoy chemistry.”
His eyes returned to her face.
The smile was gone.
“I asked a simple question.”
“And I gave you a simple answer.”
Enzo’s voice cut between them.
“She answers to me.”
Matteo turned.
There was affection in his face now.
Real or expertly performed, Wren couldn’t tell.
“Of course she does.”
He approached Enzo and put a hand on his shoulder.
Enzo did not flinch.
That almost made it worse.
“I came as soon as I heard the line was cut,” Matteo said. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“And the girl?”
Wren crossed her arms.
“The girl has a name.”
Matteo glanced at her.
“My apologies.”
“No, they weren’t.”
Luca looked at the ceiling.
Enzo’s mouth moved at one corner.
Matteo saw it.
For the first time, his calm cracked.
Not much.
Just enough.
His gaze sharpened on Wren.
Then the softness returned.
“Enzo,” he said, “we should speak privately.”
“We are.”
“This concerns family.”
“So does she now.”
Silence.
Wren looked at Enzo so fast she nearly hurt her neck.
He didn’t look at her.
Luca did.
Matteo did too.
Everyone in the room seemed to hear the phrase differently.
Wren recovered first.
“I think he means medically.”
Enzo still did not look at her.
“I said what I said.”
Heat climbed the back of her neck.
Terrible timing.
Absolutely terrible.
Matteo removed his hand from Enzo’s shoulder.
“What happened to the medication?”
Wren’s attention snapped back.
“What do you mean?”
“The evening dose. It’s usually on the bedside tray.”
He knew.
Not just the schedule.
The exact place.
She held his gaze.
“I changed the routine.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m his caregiver.”
“Dr. Hale designed the routine.”
“Then Dr. Hale can call me.”
Matteo’s voice cooled.
“You may not understand how things work in this house.”
“No, I understand perfectly. That’s the problem.”
“Wren,” Enzo said quietly.
Not a warning.
A reminder.
Let him talk.
She stepped back.
Matteo looked from her to the pill.
“Where is Enzo’s gabapentin?”
“In the bottle.”
“He takes it at eleven.”
“Not tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because the pill in his tray doesn’t match the prescription.”
There.
The room went still.
Matteo looked at the bag.
Then at her.
“If that’s true, there was likely a pharmacy error.”
“Maybe.”
“Or Rosa set the wrong pill.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re suggesting something else.”
“I’m suggesting I don’t know.”
“And yet you’re bagging medication like evidence.”
Wren smiled without warmth.
“That bothers you?”
“No. It strikes me as theatrical.”
“So does cutting power to an eighty-year-old mansion, but here we are.”
Luca coughed again.
Matteo’s eyes hardened.
Enzo spoke before the room could split open.
“Where were you eight months ago the night I was shot?”
Everything stopped.
Even the rain seemed quieter.
Matteo stared at his nephew.
“At the hospital.”
“Before that.”
“With you.”
“After the ambulance took me.”
“I followed.”
“No.”
Enzo’s voice was soft.
“You disappeared for forty minutes.”
Matteo’s face changed.
This time Wren saw it clearly.
Not fear.
Calculation.
“You were unconscious.”
“I was bleeding. I was not dead.”
“I was arranging security.”
“At St. Agnes?”
“Yes.”
“With Hale?”
Matteo went still.
Luca’s hand moved closer to his jacket.
Wren didn’t breathe.
Matteo looked at Enzo for a long time.
Then he sighed.
“So that’s what this is.”
“What is this?”
“Paranoia.”
Enzo’s expression did not move.
Matteo’s voice turned almost gentle.
“You’ve been trapped in that chair for eight months. Men who used to fear you now speak slowly around you. Every door requires help. Every staircase reminds you what you lost. That kind of thing changes the mind.”
Wren felt anger flare so fast it surprised her.
Enzo showed nothing.
Matteo continued.
“You begin looking for a reason. A person. Someone to blame.”
“Did you meet Hale that night?”
“I speak to your doctor often.”
“That night.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were dying.”
“And three days later?”
A pause.
“I don’t remember.”
“I do.”
Matteo’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you?”
“I remember waking at three in the morning and hearing your voice outside my room.”
Wren looked at Enzo.
He had never mentioned this.
“I remember you telling Hale to increase something.”
Matteo gave a tired smile.
“Pain medication.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You remember eight months later?”
“I remember your voice.”
Matteo leaned closer.
“I raised you after your father was killed.”
Enzo’s face became stone.
“I know.”
“I carried you into my house when you were eleven. I taught you how to drive. How to shoot. How to recognize a liar before he opened his mouth. I stood beside you when everyone else wanted the chair you inherited.”
Enzo glanced down at his wheelchair.
“Interesting choice of word.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
Wren almost admired the cruelty of it.
Almost.
“Do you truly believe I would cripple you?”
“I don’t know what I believe.”
“That is worse.”
“Yes,” Enzo said. “It is.”
For the first time, Matteo looked hurt.
That was the most dangerous thing about him.
He was either innocent and devastated.
Or guilty and brilliant.
Wren could not tell which.
Matteo straightened.
“Test your pills. Test the bottles. Call another physician. Tear this house apart if that helps you sleep.”
“I intend to.”
“But do not mistake your fear for evidence.”
His eyes moved to Wren.
“And be careful who you decide to trust simply because she tells you what you want to hear.”
Wren lifted her chin.
“I haven’t told him anything he wants to hear.”
“No?”
“No. Mostly I tell him to drink water.”
Enzo made a sound suspiciously close to another laugh.
Matteo ignored it.
“You’re new here, Ms. Hart. That makes you useful because you see things without history.”
“Agreed.”
“It also makes you dangerous because you understand nothing about the people around you.”
“Also possible.”
“I hope you remember both.”
“I hope you remember I photograph medication labels.”
For one second, hatred flashed through his face.
Then it was gone.
Matteo buttoned his coat.
“I’ll be at the city house.”
“No,” Enzo said.
Matteo turned.
“You’ll stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because until I know who cut the power, no one leaves.”
Matteo’s expression chilled.
“You’re confining me?”
“I’m protecting the family.”
“That phrase sounds different when you say it from a locked room.”
Enzo’s eyes went colder.
“You taught me that too.”
Matteo stood very still.
Then he smiled.
“Good night, Enzo.”
He left.
Luca shut the door.
No one spoke for several seconds.
Then Wren released a breath.
“Wow.”
Enzo rubbed his face.
“Do not say it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
“I was going to say your family makes Thanksgiving look exhausting.”
Luca laughed outright.
Enzo glared at both of them.
“Out.”
Luca sobered.
“Boss?”
“Check Matteo’s phone records. Quietly.”
“Done.”
“And put two men outside his room.”
“He’ll know.”
“I know.”
Luca nodded and left.
Wren began collecting the medication bags.
Enzo watched her.
“You think he did it.”
“I think he knew too much about the pills.”
“He has managed my care since the shooting.”
“That explains it.”
“You don’t believe in coincidences.”
“I believe in them all the time. I just don’t build care plans around them.”
He was quiet.
Wren glanced at the clock.
“Back to bed.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not sleeping.”
“You need sleep.”
“My uncle may be trying to kill me.”
“Then being delirious tomorrow will really give you the edge.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She rolled toward him.
He stopped her with one hand on the rim of his chair.
“You cannot keep treating this like a hospital room.”
“Why not?”
“Because in a hospital, the danger comes through the doors.”
“And here?”
“It may already be inside.”
Wren looked at him.
That was the first truly honest thing he had said all night.
She crouched in front of the chair.
“Okay.”
His brow furrowed.
“Okay?”
“No bed.”
He seemed suspicious.
“What do you propose?”
“I make coffee. You tell me everything about the shooting.”
His face closed instantly.
“That is not necessary.”
“Then go to bed.”
He stared.
She stared back.
He lost.
“I was leaving a restaurant.”
Wren stood and went to the small bar.
“Keep talking.”
“There were two cars.”
“How many shooters?”
“Three confirmed.”
“You remember?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you hit?”
“Left side. One round through the abdomen. One near the spine.”
She stopped pouring water.
“Near?”
“The surgeons said fragments entered the canal.”
“But the operative report says the spinal cord was contused, not transected.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You read fast.”
“I read frightened.”
He looked away.
That sentence landed.
Wren brought him coffee but kept his cup light.
“One sugar?”
“None.”
“You look like a one-sugar man.”
“I am not.”
“Tragic.”
He took the cup.
His fingers brushed hers.
The contact was small.
It still changed the air.
Wren pulled her hand away first.
“After the shooting,” she said, “you woke up with no movement?”
“Nothing below my waist.”
“No sensation?”
“Some. Pressure. Heat sometimes. Not reliably.”
“Spasms?”
“Started two weeks later.”
“Any voluntary movement?”
He hesitated.
“Once.”
“The left foot?”
Now he looked at her.
“How did you know?”
“It’s in the first rehab notes.”
“I thought I imagined it.”
“You didn’t.”
His face went still.
“They told me it was reflex.”
“Maybe it was.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I believe we need a new neurologist.”
“Why?”
“Because no one should have stopped documenting an incomplete injury like it was a closed case.”
His grip tightened on the cup.
For eight months, everyone around him had apparently spoken in endings.
Permanent.
Irreversible.
Accept.
Adapt.
Wren knew medicine better than to promise miracles.
Hope could be cruel when handed out carelessly.
So she did not give him hope.
She gave him a plan.
“Tomorrow, new imaging. Independent specialist. Full medication review. Physical medicine consult. Wound care. And an actual rehab evaluation.”
Enzo looked at her.
“You think I can walk again.”
“No.”
The answer struck him.
Wren continued before he could retreat.
“I think no one has earned the right to tell you that you can’t until we know what your spinal cord is doing now.”
His eyes stayed on hers.
“Difference?”
“Everything.”
The room went quiet.
Then a faint sound came from the hallway.
Not footsteps.
A scrape.
Wren turned.
Something slid beneath the study door.
A white envelope.
Luca’s men were supposed to be outside.
Wren’s heart began to pound.
Enzo set down the coffee.
“Don’t touch it.”
She did not.
The envelope sat on the carpet between them.
Her name was written across the front.
WREN.
Black ink.
Block letters.
Enzo reached for his gun.
Wren grabbed a fireplace poker instead.
“Very medical,” he murmured.
“Shut up.”
She crossed the room and opened the door fast.
The corridor was empty.
No guards.
No movement.
One wall sconce flickered.
“Luca!” Enzo shouted.
Footsteps thundered from the far stair.
Two men appeared, confused.
They had been called away by a false radio message.
Nobody had seen anyone enter the corridor.
Luca arrived seconds later.
Wren pointed at the envelope.
“No one touches it barehanded.”
Luca looked at her.
“Understood.”
They opened it with gloves.
Inside was one photograph.
Gabe.
Alive.
Sitting in what looked like a clinic room.
The picture had been taken less than an hour earlier.
On the back, a sentence had been written.
ASK ENZO WHO SIGNED YOUR TERMINATION.
Wren read it twice.
Then she looked up.
Enzo’s face told her he knew.
Her stomach turned.
“No.”
“Wren.”
“No.”
She crossed the room toward him.
“Who?”
He did not answer.
“Who signed the recommendation that St. Agnes fire me?”
Enzo closed his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, the answer was already there.
“My foundation owns thirty-two percent of St. Agnes.”
She stared at him.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Who?”
His voice was almost too quiet to hear.
“I did.”
Everything inside her stopped.
The house.
Gabe.
Matteo.
The pills.
All of it disappeared behind one clean fact.
The man who had hired her because she was desperate had helped make her desperate in the first place.
Wren stepped back from him as if he had struck her.
Enzo said her name.
She raised one hand.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Her voice shook.
“You knew exactly who I was before I came here.”
“Yes.”
“You knew I lost my job.”
“Yes.”
“You knew I was being evicted.”
He didn’t answer.
That was enough.
Wren laughed once, broken and furious.
“Of course you did.”
“It wasn’t personal.”
She looked at him.
He knew immediately that he had chosen the worst possible words.
“Wren—”
“No. That one? That one you don’t get back.”
She grabbed her bag.
He tried to wheel after her.
“Listen to me.”
“I did. That was my mistake.”
“The termination review came through the foundation. There were liability concerns.”
“I saved him.”
“I know.”
“You signed anyway.”
“I signed what the board recommended.”
“And now you hire me because suddenly being the nurse who breaks rules is useful to you?”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt worse than a lie.
Wren walked to the door.
“You are exactly like the rest of them.”
He flinched.
Barely.
But she saw it.
“You think because you can admit the ugly thing, it makes you better than the person who did it.”
“No.”
“You think owning your sins is the same as repairing them.”
“No.”
“Then what do you think?”
His hands went still on the wheels.
“I think I made a decision about a woman I had never met because it was easier than asking whether the paperwork told the whole story.”
Wren’s eyes burned.
“And?”
“And I was wrong.”
She hated that he said it so simply.
No excuses.
No board.
No legal counsel.
Just wrong.
It would have been easier if he defended himself.
Easier if he was only a villain.
Luca stood by the fireplace pretending not to hear.
Wren looked at the photograph of Gabe.
“You don’t get forgiveness because you hired me.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get it because you need me.”
“I know.”
“You may never get it.”
Enzo nodded.
“I know.”
The anger had nowhere to go.
Wren hated him for that too.
She zipped her bag.
Then her eyes fell on the pill.
On the medical file.
On the photograph.
She could leave.
She should leave.
But Gabe was still tangled in this.
And someone had placed an envelope inside a guarded house.
Someone wanted her angry.
Someone wanted her gone.
Wren looked toward the hallway.
Then back at Enzo.
“I’m staying until I find my brother.”
His expression did not change, but relief moved through him anyway.
“After that,” she said, “we are done.”
Enzo nodded.
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
Another lie entered the room.
May you like
This time, both of them heard it.
Neither said a word.
