THE DENTIST WHO UNCOVERED THE BLACK KING’S DARKEST SECRET

I slept for less than two hours.

Salvatore's mansion had guest rooms larger than my entire clinic, but luxury did nothing to quiet my thoughts. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the silver ring in the security footage and Carmine's expression when the fragment vanished.

At six in the morning, I gave up trying to sleep and went downstairs.

Salvatore was already in his study, wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A plate of untouched toast sat beside him.

“You should be resting,” I said.

“So should you.”

“I don't spend my nights surrounded by men with guns.”

“Neither do I, usually.”

I glanced at the toast.

“Try eating.”

“I had soup.”

“That's not breakfast.”

“Doctor, you removed a piece of metal from my mouth yesterday. Do you intend to control every meal I eat now?”

“Only until you stop treating your body like an inconvenient employee.”

He looked amused.

For a brief moment, he seemed less like the Black King and more like a tired man who had forgotten how ordinary life worked.

Then Rocco entered carrying a thick folder.

“We found the original incident report from the harbor,” he said. “The official investigation concluded that an outside crew ambushed the shipment.”

“Who signed it?” Salvatore asked.

Rocco hesitated.

“Carmine.”

Silence settled over the room.

“That's not possible,” Salvatore said. “He was in the hospital that night.”

“His signature is on the final report. He may have signed it afterward.”

“Who prepared the report?”

“A private investigator named Thomas Vale. He died in a car accident two years later.”

Salvatore opened the folder.

The first pages described gunfire, three fatalities, and a shipment that had disappeared before police arrived. The last section included a list of recovered items.

I leaned over his shoulder.

“Can I see that page?”

He passed it to me.

There were shell casings, damaged vehicle parts, personal effects, and a line that made my pulse quicken: One unidentified metal fragment recovered from the injured party's facial wound.

“That's the fragment,” I said.

“Possibly,” Rocco replied. “The description is vague.”

“Where is the original evidence?”

“According to the file, it was transferred to a police evidence unit.”

“Then we need to verify that transfer.”

Salvatore's gaze sharpened.

“You think the fragment was deliberately left in my face?”

“I think we don't know how it got there. The record proves someone documented a metal fragment after the shooting. That doesn't prove who put it there, or whether it came from a weapon.”

“Someone has spent eight years making sure I never learned what happened.”

“Maybe. But we need evidence, not guesses.”

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded.

“Find the investigator's surviving records.”

Rocco left.

I turned back to the photograph from the night before.

“Who was Isabella to you?”

Salvatore's face changed.

“She was the only person who could tell me I was wrong without fearing what I'd do. We were supposed to marry. After the harbor attack, she vanished. Her car was found near the river, and a body was identified as hers.”

“Was there a funeral?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see the body?”

His silence answered me.

“Salvatore—”

“I was recovering from surgery. Carmine handled everything.”

The room seemed colder.

“Your brother told you your fiancée was dead, but you never saw her?”

“I trusted him.”

The words sounded like a confession.

He picked up the photograph again, staring at the woman beside him.

“I spent years believing she had been killed because she loved me.”