Chapter 2 - The Injection Nobody Could Explain
Sophia was examined in Roman’s private medical suite before midnight.
Dr. Anthony Vale was gone.
Not escaped.
Gone.
Security followed him into the east corridor.
He entered a bathroom.
Never came out.
A service passage behind a wall panel led toward the old wine cellar.
Roman had not known it existed.
That alone made him furious.
His grandfather built the mansion.
His father expanded it.
Apparently every generation of Valentes believed secrets needed architecture.
Mara sat beside Sophia while a pediatric specialist examined the marks.
Roman stood nearby.
“What was injected?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Guess.”
“I won’t.”
Roman hated doctors who refused to guess.
Mara appreciated this one immediately.
Dr. Rebecca Sloan drew blood.
“Whatever happened, she appears stable.”
Roman folded his arms.
“She has severe allergy risk.”
“I know.”
“Could it have been an allergen?”
“Possible.”
“Poison?”
“Possible.”
“Sedative?”
“Possible.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
Mara interrupted.
“Roman.”
He looked at her.
“Let her work.”
Nobody spoke to him that way.
Yet.
Again.
He stepped back.
Sophia squeezed Mara’s hand.
“Will it hurt?”
“Just a little.”
“You promise?”
Mara hesitated.
Then smiled.
“Yes.”
Sophia watched her face while the blood was drawn.
No tears.
Roman noticed.
He had held his daughter through dozens of appointments.
She always cried.
Tonight she looked only at Mara.
Something uncomfortable moved inside him.
Gratitude.
And jealousy.
Ridiculous.
Yet real.
Afterward Roman asked:
“Why does she trust you?”
Mara looked surprised.
“I’m nice to her.”
“I’m nice.”
Mara almost smiled.
“That’s debatable.”
Roman stared.
She added:
“To adults.”
Fair.
Sophia became sleepy.
Mara carried her to bed.
Roman followed.
Sophia’s room still looked like Elena designed it.
Pink walls.
White canopy.
Photographs.
A framed picture of mother and daughter beside the window.
Roman rarely entered without pain.
Mara tucked Sophia in.
The child whispered:
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Is Uncle Anthony bad?”
Roman sat beside her.
“I don’t know.”
“Will you hurt him?”
The question struck him.
Mara looked at him carefully.
Roman answered:
“No.”
Sophia studied his face.
“Promise?”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
That promise might become inconvenient.
He made it anyway.
After Sophia slept, Roman and Mara stepped into the hallway.
“You stopped me downstairs.”
“Yes.”
“You knew I was questioning a man connected to an attack on my daughter.”
“Yes.”
“You did it because Sophia could hear.”
“Yes.”
Roman studied her.
“You aren’t afraid of me.”
Mara looked him directly in the eyes.
“I am.”
That surprised him.
“You don’t act like it.”
“I’ve been afraid of worse things.”
“What?”
She looked toward Sophia’s room.
“Losing children.”
Roman felt the answer had history behind it.
Before he could ask, Luca approached.
“We found something.”
Anthony’s abandoned office contained a syringe wrapper.
Same brand used by private clinics.
And a medical authorization form.
Signed by Roman.
He stared.
“I didn’t sign this.”
“It looks exact.”
“It isn’t.”
Luca handed him another sheet.
A prescription.
For Sophia.
A medication Roman had never heard of.
Histamine desensitization compound H-17.
Mara’s face changed.
“What?”
Roman looked at her.
“You know it?”
“No.”
“You reacted.”
“I know what desensitization trials are.”
“And?”
“They can be dangerous outside proper supervision.”
Roman’s expression hardened.
“Sophia was part of a trial?”
Mara shook her head.
“Not legally.”
Luca continued.
“Anthony signed as supervising physician.”
Roman’s voice became cold.
“Find him.”
“We are.”
“Find everyone who helped him.”
“Yes.”
Then Mara noticed a date.
The prescription started six months earlier.
“Roman.”
“What?”
“How long has Sophia been having stomachaches?”
He frowned.
“What stomachaches?”
Mara stared.
“She gets them after breakfast twice a week.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“How do you know?”
“She tells me.”
“She never told me.”
Mara softened.
“Children don’t always tell the person they’re afraid of worrying.”
That hurt.
He looked toward the bedroom.
“What else has she told you?”
“She wakes up dizzy sometimes.”
Roman’s stomach tightened.
“What?”
“She said Dr. Anthony calls it growing pains.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No.”
Mara’s expression hardened.
“I thought she was anxious after losing her mother.”
Roman looked down at the prescription.
Six months.
His friend had been doing something to Sophia for six months.
The cake may have been designed not merely to trigger an allergy.
Perhaps to create a public “accident” that explained symptoms Anthony’s experiments had caused.
Roman understood the shape of the lie.
“Someone needed her reaction to look natural.”
Mara nodded.
“And fatal?”
She regretted the word immediately.
Roman’s face became stone.
“No.”
“What?”
“Nobody gets to say fatal in this hallway.”
Mara nodded.
He was not being irrational.
He was holding himself together with language.
Fine.
The laboratory called at 1:20 a.m.
The injection contained microdoses of allergen extract.
Not enough to trigger severe reaction alone.
But enough to prime Sophia’s immune system.
Combined with a significant exposure—such as almond paste—the reaction could have been catastrophic.
Roman closed his eyes.
Mara whispered:
“The cake was step two.”
“Yes.”
Someone had designed it carefully.
Inject small allergen.
Then expose her publicly.
Birthday tragedy.
A known allergy.
No murder investigation.
No suspicion.
Except the wrong bracelet gave Mara pause.
“Why switch the bracelet?” Roman asked.
Luca replied:
“If emergency crews arrived, the replacement band didn’t contain full allergy protocols.”
Roman stared.
“So treatment would be delayed.”
“Yes.”
Mara’s stomach turned.
This was calculated.
Then security found Anthony’s vehicle.
Abandoned six miles away.
Blood on the driver’s seat.
No Anthony.
Roman looked at Luca.
“Was he running?”
“Maybe.”
“Or taken.”
“Yes.”
The conspiracy widened.
Roman went to his study alone.
For twenty minutes he stared at a photograph of Elena.
His late wife.
Cancer.
Pancreatic.
Fast.
Cruel.
Anthony had treated her too.
Roman stopped breathing.
The thought appeared slowly.
Then all at once.
He called Mara.
She arrived still wearing her black maid dress and white apron.
“What?”
Roman handed her Elena’s medical file.
“I want you to look.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“You worked in allergy care.”
“That doesn’t make me an oncologist.”
“Look anyway.”
She did.
Chemotherapy.
Pain medication.
Nutritional supplements.
Then one name caught her eye.
H-17.
Same compound family.
Different dosage.
“Roman.”
He saw her face.
“What?”
“This was in Elena’s file.”
He already knew.
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
“You told me earlier guesses are dangerous.”
“I’m changing policy.”
Mara shook her head.
“Could be unrelated.”
“Could it suppress or alter immune response?”
“Possibly.”
“Could prolonged misuse make someone sick?”
“Possibly.”
Roman’s hands tightened.
His wife had died after months of unexplained deterioration.
His daughter had now been secretly injected.
Same doctor.
Same compound family.
Anthony.
Roman whispered:
“What if Elena didn’t die from cancer?”
Mara’s eyes filled.
“Don’t do that to yourself without evidence.”
Before Roman could answer, Luca entered.
His face looked wrong.
“What?”
“We found Anthony.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Police station.”
Roman frowned.
Anthony had surrendered.
“He asked for protective custody.”
“From me?”
“No.”
Luca swallowed.
“From your sister.”
Roman went completely still.
“Isabella?”
Anthony had given detectives one sentence.
If Roman wants to know who ordered the injections, ask Isabella why Elena’s autopsy was cancelled.
Roman turned toward the ballroom below.
May you like
Isabella was still inside the locked house.
And suddenly his daughter’s birthday cake was connected to his wife’s funeral.
