Chapter 8 - THE DOCTOR’S BAG
Dr. Beck stood beside Sofia’s crib.
His back was toward the door.
One hand rested inside his medical bag.
Elena stopped.
“Doctor.”
He turned.
Something in his expression made her body lock.
Not guilt.
Fear.
“Elena.”
“Step away from the crib.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Now.”
Footsteps thundered behind her.
Matteo appeared.
Then two guards.
Dr. Beck raised both hands.
“Whatever you think—”
“Move.”
Matteo’s voice was flat.
The doctor stepped away.
One of the guards searched the bag.
Stethoscope.
Medications.
Thermometer.
Emergency equipment.
Then a second phone.
Not registered.
Matteo looked at Beck.
“What is that?”
The doctor closed his eyes.
“Mine.”
“Why?”
“I can explain.”
“Do it quickly.”
Beck sat heavily in the chair.
“My wife has cancer.”
Elena frowned.
“What?”
“Stage four.”
His voice cracked.
“They contacted me four months ago.”
Matteo’s face became unreadable.
“What did they want?”
“Medical information.”
“Whose?”
“Sofia’s.”
Elena felt sick.
“You gave strangers a baby’s medical records?”
“I gave them nothing useful.”
“You had a second phone.”
“I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice.”
Beck looked at her.
“You buried two children.”
The words struck like a slap.
“What did you say?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
Elena stepped closer.
“Finish.”
Beck’s eyes filled.
“You know what it is to watch someone you love die.”
“Yes.”
“They promised my wife treatment.”
Matteo looked at him.
“And in exchange?”
“Updates.”
“Location?”
“No.”
“Photographs?”
Beck shook his head.
“No.”
Matteo’s gaze sharpened.
“Then who photographed Sofia?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
Matteo took one step forward.
Elena moved between them.
Again.
“You’re making this a habit.”
Matteo muttered.
“Ask better questions.”
She turned to Beck.
“What exact information did they request?”
“Feeding.”
“Weight?”
“Yes.”
“Bloodwork?”
“Yes.”
“Development?”
“Yes.”
“Anything unusual?”
Beck hesitated.
Elena saw it.
“What?”
“They kept asking whether Sofia had been tested for a hereditary blood disorder.”
Matteo frowned.
“She doesn’t have one.”
“I know.”
“What disorder?”
Beck named it.
Elena recognized it immediately.
Rare.
Genetic.
Usually inherited through specific family lines.
She looked at Matteo.
“Do you have it in your family?”
“No.”
“Nadia?”
“I don’t know.”
Beck shook his head.
“She did not.”
“How do you know?”
“I reviewed her prenatal records.”
Elena’s mind started moving.
“Then why ask?”
Nobody answered.
She looked at Sofia.
A horrible thought formed.
“Unless they weren’t asking about Sofia.”
Matteo stared.
“What do you mean?”
“What if they were checking whether she was biologically yours?”
The room went silent.
Matteo’s face became terrifyingly still.
Beck whispered, “I wondered.”
Elena turned on him.
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“I had no proof.”
Matteo looked at the doctor.
“Get out.”
“Matteo.”
“Out.”
The guards escorted Beck downstairs.
Elena remained.
Matteo stood beside Sofia’s crib.
His back was rigid.
“You think Nadia cheated.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied Sofia may not be mine.”
“I said whoever contacted Beck may have been trying to establish paternity.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He laughed once without humor.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Elena watched him.
“Do you doubt Nadia?”
“No.”
The answer was instant.
“Then don’t let strangers manufacture doubt for you.”
His eyes met hers.
“You believe her?”
“I never met her.”
“That was not what I asked.”
Elena looked at Sofia.
“I believe whoever is doing this wants you isolated.”
His expression changed.
“They threaten Anton’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Manipulate Beck through his wife.”
“Yes.”
“Frame Dmitri.”
“Possibly.”
“Point to Viktor.”
“Yes.”
“And now question Sofia’s paternity.”
“Exactly.”
Matteo’s eyes hardened.
“They want me to destroy everyone myself.”
Elena remembered Anya’s words.
The brothers will destroy each other for us.
“Yes.”
The realization changed the investigation.
They had been following accusations.
Now they began looking for the one person who benefited from every fracture.
Matteo brought in records.
Family histories.
Company structures.
Staff lists.
Elena sat at a dining table with people she would once have crossed the street to avoid.
And slowly, a pattern emerged.
Every threatened person had one connection.
The Volkov Foundation.
The charity arm.
Viktor Sokolov chaired it.
Dmitri sat on the board.
Beck’s wife received treatment grants from it.
Anton’s daughter attended a school funded by it.
Nadia directed its maternal-health program.
Marco’s accounting firm audited it.
Elena stared at the page.
“The saint.”
Matteo looked up.
“What?”
“Anton said they kept referring to a saint.”
“Yes.”
“You assumed Viktor because everyone calls him generous.”
“Yes.”
“What if ‘the saint’ isn’t a person?”
Matteo frowned.
Elena pointed at the foundation logo.
A gold halo surrounded a white bird.
“What if it’s the foundation?”
Matteo stared.
The logo had been in front of him for years.
“The Foundation cleans up the mess.”
Elena said slowly.
“Money goes through it.”
Matteo’s security analyst began typing.
Transactions appeared.
Medical grants.
International aid shipments.
Construction projects.
Educational programs.
All legitimate on the surface.
Then Matteo pointed.
“Those companies.”
“What?”
“Three vendors.”
His voice changed.
“They belong to people I thought were dead.”
Elena looked at him.
“Dead?”
“Former associates.”
“How former?”
He did not answer.
She did not need him to.
The analyst traced the payments.
Millions moved through charities.
Then into private trusts.
Then into companies controlled by one legal office.
A name appeared.
MIRIAM KLINE, ESQ.
Elena frowned.
“Who is Miriam Kline?”
Matteo went pale.
“My father’s attorney.”
“Still practicing?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She died twelve years ago.”
Elena felt cold.
“Then someone is using a dead lawyer’s identity.”
The analyst continued tracing.
A beneficiary code appeared repeatedly.
BV-17.
Matteo stared.
Elena noticed.
“What?”
His voice went quiet.
“Bluebird Seventeen.”
Her heartbeat accelerated.
“Marco’s key.”
She pulled the brass key from her pocket.
Four-seventeen.
Bluebird.
Seventeen.
Matteo stood.
“The locker.”
They both understood at once.
The memory card had not contained the full evidence.
It had contained directions.
The real ledger was still somewhere else.
Union Station.
Locker 417.
And if the people hunting them understood the same clue, they were already moving.
Matteo grabbed his coat.
Elena stood.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
She gave him a look.
He sighed.
“Fine.”
Anton entered carrying his phone.
“Too late.”
Matteo stopped.
“What?”
Anton held up the screen.
Union Station security footage.
Locker 417 had been opened twenty minutes earlier.
By a woman in a red coat.
Elena stared.
She knew her.
Everyone in New York knew her.
Viktor Sokolov’s wife.
May you like
Helena.
But Helena Sokolov had supposedly died three years ago.
