Chapter 3 - The Whisper
The phrase hung in the humid air of the treatment room like a dropped blade.
“Touch it slower.”
It wasn't an instruction about massage technique. It was a coded command.
My hands froze against his skin. The almond oil on my fingertips suddenly felt cold. I stared down at his scarred shoulder, my mind racing back through every fragmented memory of my father’s final week alive—the whispered phone calls, the frantic scribbling in the ledger, the strange, rhythmic way he used to tap his desk when working on his secret research.
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
It matched the cadence of Matteo’s words.
“Why?” I asked, my voice barely a breath.
“Because,” Matteo replied, his eyes never leaving mine from the face cradle, “if you press too fast, the alarm goes off. And right now, the people looking for this scar want you just as dead as they want me.”
I stepped back from the table, wiping my oily hands on a hand towel. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The quiet little life I had carved out—the bills, the student loans, the struggling studio, the innocent dream of expanding into a holistic health center—shattered into dust.
“Who are you?” I demanded, letting go of all professional pretense. “What is this scar? What does it have to do with Arthur Monroe?”
Matteo slowly pushed himself up from the table, sitting on the edge of the vinyl padding with his massive, muscular frame towering over me. Without his shirt, under the amber glow of the salt lamp, he looked less like a businessman and more like an executioner.
“Arthur Monroe was my mentor,” Matteo said quietly.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled back against the supply cart, rattling the bottles of lotion and oils.
“Liar,” I gasped. “My father was a clinical researcher and a holistic practitioner. He spent his life helping people, not running with Boston syndicates.”
“Your father helped people because he believed healing was a weapon against corruption,” Matteo corrected, standing up to his full height. He towered over me, but his eyes were entirely devoid of malice—filled instead with a heavy, bone-weary sorrow. “The clinic didn't burn down by accident, Ava. It burned because Arthur refused to hand over the ledger to the men who wanted to weaponize his research on cellular regeneration.”
“Cellular... what?” I shook my head, tears of shock and anger stinging the backs of my eyes. “He was researching botanical pain management!”
“He was researching a gene-therapy protocol that could make men like me immune to trauma, aging, and pain,” Matteo said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He reached out, gently grabbing my wrist. His grip was firm, unyielding, but not cruel. “And the Syndicate wants it back. They think he hid the final sequence inside you.”
Before I could process the insanity of his words, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from the front of the studio.
Clank.
May you like
The deadbolt on the front glass door turned.
Somebody had just picked the lock.
