Chapter 4 - The Unseen Ledger
Before Victoria could find her voice to scream, before the stunned attorneys could pick up the shredded remnants of the seventy-million-dollar contract from the marble floor, the sharp, rhythmic hum of the grand ballroom’s atmosphere changed.
Elena barely had time to process Dante’s words.
Suddenly, a weak, rasping sound came from beside her.
Elena snapped her head around. Margaret Vale had slumped sideways in her motorized leather wheelchair, her head lolling against the high leather headrest, her breathing shallow and ragged.
“Margaret!” Elena cried out, dropping to her knees on the marble floor, ignoring the velvet hem of her burgundy dress sweeping against the dust.
Panic, swift and cold, replaced the shock of the room. Elena grabbed Margaret’s wrist, pressing her fingers against the frail, papery skin to check her pulse. It was erratic, racing far too fast.
“Get back!” Elena shouted to the cluster of socialites who immediately crowded forward out of morbid curiosity. “Give her air! Step back right now!”
Dante was by her side in a fraction of a second. The corporate titan dropped to one knee beside Elena on the hard marble, unbuttoning his own collar with ruthless efficiency.
“What is it?” Dante asked, his voice dropping all pretense of casual detachment, carrying a raw, urgent command. “Cardiac event? Blood pressure?”
“Her heart,” Elena said, her hands moving with professional, lightning-fast precision as she unzipped the top of Margaret’s cashmere shawl to check her pacemaker site. “She missed her afternoon stabilization dose. The stress of this... this circus caused an arrhythmia.”
Victoria pushed her way through the crowd, her face twisted in a mask of furious desperation. “She’s fine! She’s just being dramatic for attention. Margaret, stop this right now, you’re embarrassing the family—!”
“Shut up, Victoria,” Dante snapped without looking up, his voice slicing through the air like a razor. If looks could kill, Victoria would have dropped dead on the spot. She recoiled, biting her lip so hard a drop of blood appeared.
As Elena leaned in closer to adjust Margaret’s head, her fingers brushed against the elderly woman’s right hand, which had been clenched tightly into a fist resting in her lap.
Margaret’s eyes fluttered open for a split second, dull and hazy with pain. With a final, desperate burst of failing strength, she shoved a folded piece of heavy parchment into Elena’s palm and closed Elena’s fingers tightly around it.
Then, Margaret’s head fell back, her eyes rolling upward as she lost consciousness.
“Medic!” Elena screamed toward the double doors, where event staff stood paralyzed. “Call 911! Get the emergency defibrillator from the lobby station now!”
Dante didn't wait for the staff. With terrifying, fluid strength, he scooped Margaret’s frail body out of the wheelchair into his arms, rising effortlessly to his feet.
“My car is parked at the private service entrance,” Dante told Elena, his eyes burning with absolute focus. “Follow me. We aren't waiting for an ambulance through Boston traffic.”
Elena scrambled to her feet, clutching the folded parchment Margaret had forced into her hand. As she ran behind Dante toward the service corridors, her eyes dropped to the paper clutched in her fist.
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Written across the top of the folded document, in bold, unmistakable ink, was a name that made her blood run cold:
Dante Moretti.
