Chapter 4 - The Serial Number
The private study on the ground floor of the mansion was locked from the inside. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn tight against the pre-dawn wind, and a single brass desk lamp illuminated the room with a harsh, golden glow.
Dominic Hale sat behind his mahogany desk, his face carved from ice. The silver pistol lay beside a leather-bound ledger. Across from him, Claire stood with the recovered formula can, while Dr. Henry Walsh stood near the door holding the laboratory chromatography printouts.
“Read it to me again, Henry,” Dominic commanded, his voice shaking with a suppressed fury that made the air in the room feel heavy.
“The two cans Claire found in the nursery were laced with a synthesized biotoxin,” Henry reported, his voice steady despite the tension. “It mimics infant digestive failure. It would have killed Eli within five days without leaving a trace in a standard hospital autopsy. It was designed to look like a tragic, unpreventable illness.”
Dominic slowly raised his gaze from the desk. His dark eyes locked onto Claire.
“You knew about this yesterday,” Dominic stated, not a question. “You didn't tell me right away.”
“If I had told you yesterday, you would have put a bullet in every head housekeeper and security guard on this estate before sunrise,” Claire replied, meeting his fierce gaze without flinching. “The killer would have gone underground, and whoever is pulling their strings would have found another way to get to Eli. I wanted proof. And last night, I got it.”
Claire set the metal can down on the desk, pointing to the laser-etched serial number near the bottom rim.
“This serial number doesn't match the bulk supply orders purchased by the estate,” Claire explained. “It belongs to a private medical courier batch. Dr. Finch, your family pediatrician, is the only one authorized to requisition specialized pharmaceutical samples for the nursery.”
Dominic stared at the number. A muscle twitched violently along his jawline.
Dr. Simon Finch had been the Hale family pediatrician for over a decade. He had treated Dominic’s late wife during her complicated pregnancy. He had held Dominic’s hand when she passed away. He was considered a trusted, untouchable member of the inner circle.
“Finch,” Dominic whispered, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. “Simon Finch has sat at my dining table. He watched me grieve over my wife’s grave.”
“Traitorous rats don't wear neon signs, Dominic,” Claire said gently, stepping closer to the desk and placing her hand over his clenched fist. Her touch was warm, steady, grounding the raging storm inside him. “They wear friendly smiles and white coats.”
Dominic looked down at her hand resting on his. The harshness in his eyes melted into a profound, vulnerable gratitude. He turned his hand over, gripping her fingers tightly.
“You saved my son twice, Claire,” Dominic murmured hoarsely. “Once from starvation, and now from murder. I owe you my life.”
“You don't owe me anything,” Claire replied softly. “We protect Eli together.”
Dominic stood up, his height and imposing presence dominating the room once more. The mafia boss had returned, but this time, he was focused, calm, and utterly ruthless.
“Marcus,” Dominic called toward the intercom on his desk.
The speaker clicked instantly. “Yes, Boss?”
“Find Dr. Simon Finch,” Dominic ordered, his voice dripping with ice. “Bring him to the basement wine cellar. Do not let anyone see you. And make sure he packs his medical bag.”
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“On it, Boss,” Marcus replied.
Dominic turned back to Claire, a dark, dangerous smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Let’s go have a conversation with our pediatrician.”
