Chapter 3: The Only Person I Could Trust
"Give me the phone," I said.
Grace hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and handed it to me.
I read the message twice.
No sender name.
A number I didn't recognize — but the area code was Manhattan.
Someone close.
Someone watching this floor right now, or close enough to know the moment Grace had walked in.
"Has anyone else texted you today?" I asked.
"No.
Just that."
"Did you tell anyone you were coming up here?"
"No one." Her voice was steady but her hands weren't.
"I came during my break.
I told the desk I was restocking the supply cart."
I set the phone face-down on the blanket.
"Sit down, Grace."
She pulled the chair close to the bed and sat on the edge of it, back straight, like she was bracing for something.
"I need you to listen carefully," I said.
"What I'm about to ask you to do is not part of your job.
If you say no, I will understand.
But I need to know right now, before anyone comes through that door."
She looked at me without blinking.
"Ask."
"I need you to contact one person for me.
His name is Sal Benedetti.
He's not in my phone — I keep his number in my head.
I need you to memorize it, leave this room, walk to the far end of the building, and call him from the stairwell.
Tell him Dominic is awake.
Tell him the room is compromised.
Tell him I need eyes on Anthony and on Veronica Hale by tonight."
Grace repeated the number back to me without writing it down.
She got it right on the first try.
"Who is he?" she asked.
"The only person in my life who has never wanted anything from me."
She stood.
Smoothed her uniform.
Picked up her phone.
"Grace." She stopped.
"After you make the call, go back to your regular duties.
Don't come back to this room unless I send for you.
If anyone asks if I've shown signs of waking, you say no."
"And if they ask about the text?"
"You never received it."
She nodded once.
Moved to the door.
Her hand was on the lock when she turned back.
"Mr.
Moretti.
Nico — the man who d*ed in the crash." Her voice was careful.
"Was he your friend?"
The word landed somewhere it hadn't been touched in five days.
"Yes," I said.
"He was."
Grace held my gaze for a moment.
"Then I'll make the call." She unlocked the door and slipped out without another sound.
I lay back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling.
The monitors beeped their slow, steady rhythm.
I controlled my breathing.
Kept my face slack.
Because thirty seconds after Grace left, the door opened again.
It was Anthony.
He came in alone, which told me everything.
He glanced at the monitor, glanced at my face, and pulled the chair to the opposite side of the bed from where Grace had been sitting.
He sat down heavily and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
"Still holding on, cousin," he said quietly.
Not a question.
Not grief.
Something else.
I didn't move.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded document.
He set it on the blanket beside my hand.
"The board meets Thursday.
If you haven't designated a successor by then, the bylaws kick in and it goes to a vote." He paused.
"You know who wins that vote."
He waited.
I gave him nothing.
Anthony stood, straightened his jacket, and looked at me one last time.
"I hope you can hear me, Dominic.
I really do." He picked the document back up.
"Because what happens Thursday is going to be much easier if you're not around to complicate it."
He walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
My jaw was tight enough to ache.
Thursday.
That gave me two days.
My phone — the private one Sal had smuggled in through a night nurse two days ago, taped beneath the mattress — vibrated once against the bed frame.
I reached down without lifting the sheet and pulled it free.
One message from Sal: *Already on it.
May you like
Don't move yet.
There's something you don't know about the crash.*
