Chapter 1 - The Eleven Nurses Who Failed Before Me—and the File Proving Enzo Marchetti Had Been Watching Me Before I Ever AppliedMy old Corolla coughed twice and died directly outside the iron gates of the Marchetti estate.
I stared at the dashboard.
“Of course.”
Seven dollars remained in my checking account.
An eviction notice was crumpled inside my glove compartment.
If I lost this job, I had nowhere left to go.
Two armed guards watched me climb out.
“I’m here about the nursing job,” I called. “Unless one of you needs a sponge bath.”
Neither smiled.
Ten minutes later, I was standing inside a mansion so cold and silent it felt more like a tomb than a home.
Enzo Marchetti sat in his study facing the window.
“You’re late,” he said without turning. “Eleven caregivers in eight months. None survived fourteen days.”
His wheelchair rotated toward me.
He wasn’t the elderly monster I had imagined.
He looked barely forty.
Powerful shoulders.
A pale scar cutting through one eyebrow.
Steel-gray eyes that could probably make innocent men apologize.
Then his fingers shook.
The glass in his hand slipped and shattered across the floor.
I looked down.
“You might want that cleaned up. Falling would really ruin your evening.”
His expression hardened.
I stepped forward and lifted the blanket covering his legs.
His hand closed around my wrist instantly.
Pain shot up my arm.
I refused to flinch.
Underneath the expensive blanket was the truth nobody around him dared mention.
Severe muscle wasting.
Angry pressure sores.
Bruising.
Signs of neglect that should never have been allowed to reach this stage.
“If you want me to treat you,” I said, meeting his stare, “stop hiding the patient.”
His grip slowly loosened.
For the first time, Enzo Marchetti looked surprised.
“Start tonight.”
Hours later, I slipped into his study searching for medical records.
I opened a drawer.
And stopped breathing.
A thick black folder sat inside.
My full name was printed across the front.
Lena Hart.
Inside were copies of my employment records.
My apartment address.
Bank information.
Details about my younger brother Gabe’s gambling debts.
Then I found the photographs.
Me leaving the hospital.
Me carrying groceries upstairs.
Me meeting Gabe behind a roadside diner.
That photograph had been taken thirteen days before Enzo’s job advertisement ever appeared.
My hands began shaking.
At the bottom of the folder was a handwritten note.
Hire her. She’s the only one who might understand what happened.
A faint mechanical sound came from behind me.
The hum of a wheelchair.
I turned slowly.
Enzo was blocking the doorway.
His eyes dropped to the folder in my hands.
And suddenly, everything about the job—the desperate salary, the strange interview, the way he had studied me—made terrifying sense.
I had believed desperation had brought me to Enzo Marchetti’s mansion.
It hadn’t.
He had been waiting for me long before I knew he existed.
I didn't move.
Neither did he.
The silence between us became almost physical.
“You could have knocked,” Enzo said.
I held up the folder.
“You could have told me you stalked me.”
“I didn't stalk you.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You have photographs of me eating groceries.”
“You were being observed.”
“That's a fancy way to say stalked.”
His jaw tightened.
“You weren't supposed to find that.”
“Apparently, I'm bad at following instructions nobody gave me.”
He rolled into the study.
“What did you read?”
“Enough.”
“Then you know the job wasn't posted for the reason you think.”
“I already figured that out.”
He stopped near the desk.
His face was unreadable.
“I needed someone I could trust.”
“You don't trust me.”
“No.”
“That's comforting.”
“I needed someone who didn't belong to the people around me.”
That changed the tone.
“You think someone around you is hurting you?”
“I know someone is.”
I looked toward his legs.
“Physically?”
“In ways that aren't always visible.”
I studied him.
“You're not suffering from a simple spinal injury.”
He looked at me sharply.
“What makes you say that?”
“Your muscle wasting doesn't match the medical records I saw.”
I hadn't actually seen them yet.
I saw the realization cross his face.
“You're guessing.”
“I'm observing.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then his expression disappeared.
“Why are you here, Lena?”
“Because I need money.”
“That simple?”
“For me, yes.”
He looked at the folder.
“And your brother?”
My stomach tightened.
“Leave Gabe out of this.”
“He owes people.”
“I know.”
“He owes me.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He borrowed from one of my gambling fronts.”
The word hit me like cold water.
“You knew about him before hiring me.”
“Yes.”
“You knew I was desperate.”
“Yes.”
“You knew I had seven dollars.”
His eyebrows moved slightly.
“You had six dollars and eighty-four cents when your application was processed.”
I stared.
“That is deeply disturbing.”
“I agree.”
“Then why hire me?”
He leaned back.
“Because you were the only applicant whose medical notes didn't match the person described in the public records.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“You're hiding something too.”
I felt my pulse quicken.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You will.”
He turned the wheelchair.
“Get some sleep.”
“I'm not done asking questions.”
“You will be tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because tonight someone will try to hurt me.”
I stared.
“You know that?”
“Yes.”
“And you're just telling me now?”
He looked over his shoulder.
“I want to see what you do.”
He left.
I stood alone in the study.
Then I looked down at the folder again.
My photographs.
My brother.
My life.
All collected before I ever entered the mansion.
But one photograph troubled me more than the others.
It showed me at the hospital six months earlier.
I was holding the hand of an elderly patient.
The patient had been my last private nursing client.
Mr. Thomas Vale.
He died two days later.
I remembered his last words.
Don't trust men with gray eyes.
At the time, I thought he had been confused.
Now I wasn't so sure.
Because on the back of the photograph someone had written:
She was there when Thomas told the truth.
I stared.
Then I remembered something I'd buried.
Three months before Thomas died, he'd asked me:
“Do you know a man named Enzo Marchetti?”
I had said no.
He had smiled.
“Good.”
Then he'd stopped talking.
I had forgotten.
Until now.
Enzo hadn't found me randomly.
Someone had recommended me.
Someone who knew Thomas.
Someone who knew what had happened to him.
I went to the bedroom assigned to me.
I barely slept.
At 2:13 a.m., I heard a metallic click from the corridor.
I opened my door.
The hallway was empty.
Then I saw Enzo's wheelchair at the far end.
He was alone.
His hands were gripping the rims.
Hard.
“Enzo?”
He looked at me.
“Go back inside.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever is coming isn't here for you.”
A shadow moved behind him.
I froze.
Enzo reached under his blanket.
A gun appeared.
He raised it.
The shadow ran.
A shot cracked through the mansion.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Enzo lowered the weapon.
Then looked at me.
“You were supposed to stay in your room.”
“And you were supposed to be asleep.”
Neither of us smiled.
The attack had failed.
But now I knew something else.
Enzo hadn't hired me simply because he was desperate.
He had hired me because he believed I had already been connected to the danger surrounding him.
May you like
And I had a terrible feeling that whatever happened to me before this house...
was the reason.
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