The words lingered in the air of the security hub, reshaping the entire scope of our investigation. Eyewitness. It was a key to a lock we never knew existed. Elara wasn't the traitor. She was a gatekeeper, guarding a secret so dangerous it required quiet, fearful phone calls to a hospice.
I struggled to keep up with everything. "So Elara… she's been in contact with this person? All these years? Protecting them?"
"Or being watched by them," Dante replied, his mind already analyzing this new reality with harsh clarity. "Valerius wouldn't leave a loose end like that unchecked. The donation, the private wing… it's a gilded cage. A prison masked as a charity. He keeps the witness comfortable, cared for, and completely cut off from the outside world."
The pieces fell into place with unsettling clarity. Elara's fear wasn't the guilt of a conspirator—it was the terror of a woman trapped in an impossible situation for twenty years. She was likely the witness's only line of contact; her calls were a lifeline, but also a constant reminder of the danger. One wrong move, one word to the wrong person, and both she and the person in that hospice would be silenced forever.
"We have to go there," I said, the words spilling out before I had fully formed the thought. "Now."
"No," Dante quickly responded, his protective instincts kicking back in. He started pacing, the restless energy of a predator rising in him. "It's too dangerous. Valerius is gone, but his network isn't. They will have people watching that place. Men loyal to him or men he paid to keep this secret buried."
"And what's the alternative?" I challenged, stepping in front of him to make him stop. "Sit here and wonder? Send Leo and a team of guards to kick down doors and announce to the whole world that you're onto them? That would be a death sentence for whoever is in that room. You and I are the only two who truly understand the entire situation. We're the only ones who can handle this quietly."
I could see the battle in his eyes. The strategist in him knew I was right. The protector, the man who had seen me take a bullet, screamed at him to confine me to my room.
"I'm not the same person who was kidnapped at that gala, Dante," I said, my voice steady but firm. "I'm not the patient you cared for. I'm your partner in this. Your blood is running through my veins. I am all in. You can't shut me out now."
He stared at me in silence for a long moment. I had laid all my cards on the table. I wasn't asking for permission; I was stating a fact.
A slow, hard nod was his only reply. "Leo will scout the location first. We'll go tomorrow, just before dawn. Minimal security. We go in clean."
The unspoken part of the command was clear. We would go in posing as a concerned couple visiting a sick relative, not a billionaire and his entourage on a mission. We would rely on the element of surprise.
Sleep was impossible that night. The revelation shot adrenaline through my system that wouldn't fade. We had been searching for a ghost, and now we were about to enter their room. Who were they? A servant? A business associate of his father's? Someone who had witnessed the murder and was left for dead?
Just before midnight, I heard a gentle knock. It was Dante, holding two glasses of whiskey.
"You won't sleep," he said, stepping into my room and handing me a glass. He didn't ask. He knew.
I took a sip; the fiery liquid felt good in my chest. We stood by the large window, looking down at the sleeping city. The silence between us was no longer tense, but filled with the shared weight of what lay ahead.
"Thank you," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the glass.
I looked at him, puzzled. "For what? Cracking the code?"
"For that," he admitted, "But mostly... for not letting me believe the worst about Elara. My paranoia nearly destroyed one of the few good things left from my childhood. You saw the truth when all I could see was betrayal."
It was the closest he had come to an apology, a raw admission of his own flawed nature. He acknowledged me not just as a partner, but as his anchor—the one who could pull him back from the depths of his own cynicism.
"We become so accustomed to searching for the monster," I said softly, "that we forget to look for the victims."
He turned, locking his intense green eyes onto mine. The glass in his hand shook slightly. He wanted to say more. I could see it in the tight line of his jaw, in the deep, aching vulnerability of his gaze. But the words wouldn't come. They were trapped behind nineteen years of pain and self-imposed isolation.
So instead of speaking, he reached out and gently took my free hand. His fingers intertwined with mine, his thumb brushing softly over my knuckles. It wasn't a gesture of passion but of profound connection. Two broken people, standing on the edge of a cliff, holding onto each other before the long fall into the secrets of the past.