My Stepbrother's Dirty Little Secret novel Chapter 740

Chapter 740

Raphael

I stepped into Adriano’s office above Velluto Rosso. On paper, it was a Michelin-starred restaurant owned by a successful businessman.

In reality, it was the perfect front for the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit to hold meetings. Politicians, judges, CEOS, and federal agents all booked tables downstairs.

Adriano stood by the window with his jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He turned around when I walked in, “You look like shit.”

“I’ve had a long night.”

His eyes moved over the dried blood still staining the cuff of my shirt as I took off my jacket,” Successful?”

“I got something,” I dropped a thick folder onto his desk, “I spent the last twelve hours digging through every medical archive, court record, death certificate, tax filing, shipping manifest, and hospital database I could get my hands on.”

Adriano pulled out his chair, “Sit.”

I stayed standing.

He sighed, “That bad?”

He opened the folder. The first photograph showed Giovanni Toricelli standing beside a man in a white lab coat.

The caption underneath read:

Dr. Arthur Vance.

Adriano stared at it for a few seconds before looking back up at me, “Congratulations,” he deadpanned.” You’ve discovered doctors wear lab coats. I’m assuming there’s a part two to this before I start questioning your sanity.”

I slid another photograph beside it, “This is the real Arthur Vance.”

Another man.

Almost identical.

Same height.

Same build.

Same hair.

Even the jawline was close enough that most people would never question it.

Adriano leaned closer, “They could pass for brothers.”

“They weren’t. The real Arthur Vance died almost Twenty-five years ago.”

“It was never Arthur Vance,” I said, my eyes settling on the photograph. “His real name was Dr. Elias Crowe. A young pediatrician. Unknown. Unremarkable,” I looked back at Adriano, “Until people started counting the dead children.”

I slid another stack of papers across the desk. Adriano flipped through page after page, autopsy reports, court transcripts, victim lists, psychiatric evaluations.

“He didn’t start by murdering hundreds,” I said. “He started by making people trust him. One child died, then another, then a handful more. Every death had an explanation. Heart failure. Respiratory arrest. A rare reaction to medication. Complications no one could prove were his fault.”

I tapped one of the reports.

“He was a pediatrician. Parents handed him their children because they believed he was trying to save them. Instead, he learned how far he could push a body without anyone asking questions. By the time  muestigators realized those deaths wenen accident the sun was aREDIT THE TIMES

Every parlem became an extenment suffering E MERCTED STEST WESKET Day Bher day studying every cry every tear every desperate breath with the detached ounty of ETTET DIDE

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the mid behind a white coat and a calm smile while his wins teneraed IT FOOT of the very people who trusted him most me documented symptoms that never exGET DE TIWITE CREME WE confidence and convinced fingrenes parents that serachs were of the ilmest

They thanked him for trying to save ther children