The Shattered Fiancée Returns As A Queen

Carmela Greco POV:

The Moretti Family Medical Center was a low, discreet building in a gated complex on the Long Island shore. It didn't appear on any public hospital registry. The doctors who worked there didn't publish papers or attend conferences. They served one client, and their discretion was absolute.

Dr. Aldric Voss met me at the private entrance. He was sixty, silver-haired, with the soft hands of a man who had never performed surgery in a real hospital. His eyes flicked to my bandages with the practiced sympathy of someone who had learned to fake compassion as a professional necessity.

"Ms. Greco. Don Moretti asked me to give you my personal attention."

"I'm grateful." I let him guide me to an examination room while my eyes catalogued everything. The security cameras. The locked filing cabinets. The computer terminal in the corner, its screen dark but its hard drive no doubt full of medical records that would never be subpoenaed.

He unwrapped my bandages with clinical efficiency. The burns were angry and red, the skin puckered and raw. He made soft, sympathetic sounds.

"Chemical burns," he murmured. "Deep. The nerve endings..." He shook his head. "I'm afraid the damage is extensive, Ms. Greco."

"Will I ever authenticate stones again?"

"I don't believe so. The fine motor control required..." He trailed off, unwilling to state the obvious.

"Could you put that in writing?" I asked. "For the Cartelli elders. They'll want medical confirmation before they cancel the pipeline."

"Of course. I'll prepare a full report for Don Moretti."

"For Don Moretti," I repeated, as if that settled it. "Thank you, Doctor."

He left me alone in the examination room to wait for my car. I counted to thirty, then I moved.

The computer terminal woke with a touch. Password-protected. I tried the default the family used for everything: *Moretti1911*--the year the family was founded. It worked. The arrogance of people who had never been challenged was a gift that kept on giving.

The patient database was organized by case number, not name. I scrolled quickly, my bandaged fingers clumsy on the keyboard. Case 0287: gunshot wound, treated at 3am, no police report filed. Case 0512: overdose, treated, released to "family custody." Case 0743: a woman, beaten, three broken ribs, cause of injury listed as "fall."

I pulled out my phone and photographed the screen. Then I searched for my own name. Case 0891. Carmela Greco. Chemical burns to both hands. Cause of injury: "Accidental exposure to industrial cleaning agent."

Not Gianna's ointment. Not a Rossi family gift. An industrial cleaning agent. The lie was already in the system, sanitized and filed. They had been covering this up before my bandages were dry.

I photographed my own file. Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.

I was back in the examination chair, hands folded in my lap, by the time Dr. Voss returned.

"Your car is here, Ms. Greco."

"Thank you, Doctor. You've been very helpful."

He smiled. He had no idea.