Chapter 15 Question Unanswered
Thursday morning brought a stack of patient files that needed review before the week's surgical schedule, and Aria welcomed the distraction. Wednesday's coffee with Dante had left her unsettled in ways she couldn't articulate. The phone call. The coldness that had transformed his face. The way he'd shut down, walls slamming into place between them.
She pushed the thoughts aside, focused on the screen in front of her. Post-operative follow-ups, discharge summaries, routine administrative work that usually bored her but today felt like sanctuary.
Then she saw it.
A death certificate dated three weeks ago. Patient: Maria Castellano, seventy-two, organ donor. Cause of death: cardiac arrest following surgical complications.
Aria's signature was at the bottom.
She stared at it, confusion prickling at the back of her neck. Maria Castellano. The name meant nothing. She pulled up the surgical schedule from three weeks ago, cross-referenced the date.
She hadn't been on duty that day. She'd been at a conference in Milan, presenting research on minimally invasive valve replacement.
Yet there was her signature. Digital, yes, but authenticated with her credentials, her medical license number.
Aria's pulse kicked up. She searched the database, pulling death certificates from the past six months, filtering by her name.
Seven certificates appeared.
She recognized three. Patients she'd actually treated, deaths she remembered. But four others were complete blanks. Dates she hadn't been working. Names she'd never heard. All organ donors. All with her signature.
Someone was forging her credentials.
Aria grabbed her phone, then stopped. Who could she call? Dr. Russo would tell her to go through proper channels. Sienna would panic. Her father would... What would her father do?
She thought about Bruno's careful questions lately. His concern about her "interesting patients." The way Gavino watched her like she was a security risk.
No. Not her father.
Dr. Vitale. The hospital administrator. This was his jurisdiction.
Twenty minutes later, Aria sat across from Dottore Vitale's desk, the printed certificates spread between them. He was sixty, perpetually nervous, the kind of bureaucrat who cared more about paperwork than patients.
"I don't understand," Aria said, keeping her voice level despite the anger simmering beneath. "These are death certificates with my signature on days I wasn't even in the hospital. Someone is using my credentials fraudulently."
Vitale barely glanced at the papers. "I'm sure it's just an administrative error. The system sometimes duplicates signatures when—"
"This isn't a system error. This is fraud. Someone is systematically forging my medical license to sign death certificates for organ donors." She leaned forward. "Why would someone do that unless they were covering up something illegal?"
"Dr. Salvini, I understand you're concerned, but these accusations—"
"Aren't accusations. They're facts. Look at the dates. Look at the surgical schedules. I couldn't have signed these."
Vitale's hands trembled slightly as he gathered the papers. "I'll look into it. These things take time to investigate properly. Sometimes there are... complications... with how records are transferred between departments."
"Complications."
"Yes. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation." He stood, effectively ending the meeting. "I'll review the records and get back to you. In the meantime, I'd appreciate your discretion. We don't want to alarm patients or staff with unfounded concerns about record-keeping."
Aria stood slowly, recognizing a dismissal when she heard one. "These aren't unfounded concerns. Someone is committing fraud using my credentials. I have a right to know who and why."
"Of course. I'll be in touch." But his expression said otherwise. It said: drop this, forget it, move on.
She left his office with her printed certificates and the certainty that Vitale knew exactly what was happening and had no intention of helping her discover the truth.
Thursday lunch found Aria pushing salad around her plate in the cafeteria, mind churning. Sienna slid into the seat across from her, concern written across her face.
"Okay, you've been weird all morning. What's wrong?"
"Just tired." The lie came easily, but Sienna knew her too well.
"You're a terrible liar. What happened?"
Aria almost told her. Almost pulled out the certificates, explained the forgeries, shared the weight of this discovery. But something stopped her. If this was connected to something larger, something criminal, she didn't want Sienna involved.
"I'm visiting my Aunt Isabetta this weekend," she said instead. "She wants to talk about my mom."
Sienna's expression shifted. "The private investigator's aunt? You haven't seen her in forever. That's random."
"She called. Said it was important."
"That's..." Sienna paused, choosing words carefully. "That's heavy. Talking about your mom. Are you sure you're ready for that?"
Aria appreciated the concern, the lack of judgment. "I don't know. But she asked, and I can't keep avoiding it."
"Just... be careful, okay? Family stuff about dead parents can get complicated. Trust me, I know."
Sienna's mother had died of cancer when she was sixteen. She understood grief in ways most people didn't.
"I will."
After Sienna left, Aria sat alone with her untouched salad and made a decision. Tonight, she'd investigate further. And if what she suspected was true, if someone was using her credentials to facilitate illegal organ trafficking, she needed help.
Maybe Isabetta, with her investigative expertise, could provide it.
Friday evening, Aria sat at her kitchen table with her laptop, the glow of the screen casting shadows across her face. She'd logged into the hospital's database using her attending physician credentials, access she technically had but rarely used outside work hours.
She searched systematically. Every death certificate filed in the past year. Every organ donor designation. Every signature that bore her name.
The pattern emerged like a slow-developing photograph.
Twelve certificates total. Five legitimate. Seven fraudulent.
All seven fraudulent certificates: organ donors. All died on days Aria wasn't working. All signed with perfect digital replicas of her signature.
She created a spreadsheet, documenting everything. Dates. Names. Organ procurement organizations involved. Which organs were harvested. Where they were sent.
The data told a story she didn't want to believe. Someone inside Sant'Angelo Hospital was running an illegal organ trafficking operation, and they were using her credentials to legitimize fraudulent deaths.
Aria screenshot everything, created an encrypted folder, backed it up to three different locations. Evidence. Proof. Protection.
But who could she trust with this information?
Not Vitale. Not anyone in hospital administration, clearly. The police? And tell them what? That she suspected fraud but had no proof of who or how?
Isabetta. The thought crystallized. Her aunt was a private investigator. She knew how to handle sensitive information, how to investigate without alerting suspects, and how to build cases.
Sunday. She'd bring everything to Isabetta. Ask for help.
Aria closed her laptop, exhaustion pulling at her. But sleep felt impossible with this weight pressing on her chest.
Saturday afternoon, Aria was picking through produce at the grocery store near her apartment when the feeling hit her. Eyes on her back. The prickle of awareness that came from being watched.
She turned slowly, scanning the store.
A man in a dark jacket stood three aisles over, pretending to examine tomatoes but watching her through the gaps in the shelving. When their eyes met, he looked away too quickly.
Aria's pulse jumped. She grabbed her basket, moved toward the checkout, keeping the man in her peripheral vision.
He followed at a distance.
She paid for her groceries, walked out to the parking lot. The man emerged thirty seconds later, headed for a dark sedan parked three spaces from her car.
Their eyes met again. He was maybe forty, nondescript features, the kind of face you'd forget five minutes after seeing it. Professional anonymity.
He got in his car, started the engine.
Aria's training kicked in. She pulled out her phone, pretended to check messages, but activated the camera and captured his license plate as he drove past.
RM 847 KX
Back in her apartment, groceries forgotten on the counter, Aria searched the license plate through public records databases. The car was registered to a company.
Romano Investigations
Romano. Her mother's maiden name. Isabetta's last name.
Her aunt was having her followed.
Aria sat on her couch, phone in hand, questions multiplying. Why would Isabetta surveil her? How long has this been going on? What was her aunt looking for?
The surveillance. The urgent phone call about discussing Camilla. The fact that Isabetta had called Sienna, asking about changes in Aria's life.
Something was happening. Something that involved Aria directly. And Isabetta knew more than she was saying.
Sunday's conversation was going to be very different than Aria had anticipated.
Sunday morning arrived with weak sunlight filtering through her bedroom window. Aria dressed carefully, choosing dark jeans and a sweater, practical and comfortable. She packed a bag: her laptop, the encrypted folder of death certificates printed and organized, the license plate information, a notebook.
She wasn't going to her aunt's apartment as a grieving niece seeking comfort and memories. She was going as an investigator demanding answers.
Two questions dominated her thoughts:
Why was Isabetta having her followed?
Could she trust her aunt with what she'd discovered about the hospital?
But underneath those questions lurked a third, more terrifying one: What if everyone she trusted had been lying to her?
The drive to EUR took thirty minutes. Isabetta's building was upscale, modern, the kind of place that attracted successful professionals and old money. Security camera at the entrance. Coded access. Everything designed for privacy and protection.
Aria pressed the buzzer for apartment 12B.
"Yes?" Isabetta's voice, cool and precise, crackled through the speaker.
"It's Aria."
"Come up."
The elevator ride felt longer than it was. Aria stared at her reflection in the polished steel doors, barely recognizing the woman staring back. When had she become someone who investigated fraud, confronted administrators, tracked license plates?
When did her carefully controlled life become so complicated?
The elevator opened on the twelfth floor. Isabetta's apartment was at the end of a quiet hallway. The door stood slightly ajar.
Aria approached, hand raised to knock, when she saw through the gap.
The apartment was sparse. Functional. But what stopped her breath was the wall visible from the doorway.
A corkboard. Massive. Covered in photographs, documents, newspaper clippings, all connected by red string in patterns that suggested months, maybe years, of investigation.
And at the center, even from the hallway, Aria could see two photographs side by side:
Her father, Bruno Salvini, in what looked like a surveillance photo.
And Dante Moretti, a professional headshot she'd never seen before.
Connected by red string.
Aria's hand tightened on her bag, feeling the weight of her own investigation inside. The death certificates. The evidence of hospital fraud.
Suddenly, those seemed very small compared to whatever her aunt had been investigating.
The door opened fully.
Isabetta stood there, tall and lean in her perpetual black, ice-blue eyes taking in everything about Aria in one sweeping glance. Her expression was unreadable, but something that might have been approval flickered across her face.
"Aria. You're early. Good. We have much to discuss, and I suspect you have questions."
Aria's voice came out steadier than she felt. "I do. Starting with why you're having me followed."
Isabetta's eyebrow raised fractionally. The ghost of a smile touched her lips.
"Smart girl. I wondered if you'd notice. Come in. This conversation will take some time."
She stepped aside.
Aria walked through the doorway, past her aunt, into the apartment. And stopped.
The investigation board dominated one entire wall. Close up, it was overwhelming. Dozens of photographs. Official documents. Police reports. Financial records. Everything is meticulously organized, color-coded, connected.
Bruno's face appeared multiple times. Different ages, different contexts. Always at the center.
And Dante. Younger in some photos. Recent in others. Connected to Bruno through what looked like old case files.
Aria turned to face her aunt, a dozen questions fighting for priority.
"What is all this?"
Isabetta closed the door, locked it with a quiet click that sounded very final.
"This," she said, gesturing to the board, "is fifteen years of work. Fifteen years of investigating your mother's murder. And now, cara, it's time you learned the truth about your father. And about the man you've been falling in love with."
The room seemed to tilt.
Isabetta walked to a cabinet, pulled out a folder, set it on the table between them.
"Sit down, Aria. We have a lot to discuss. And I have a feeling you brought your own questions today."
Aria's hand moved automatically to her bag. The death certificates. Her investigation into hospital fraud.
She looked at the board again. At her father's face. At Dante's. At the web of connections she didn't understand.
Whatever she'd discovered about the hospital, whatever fraud she'd uncovered, suddenly felt connected to something much larger. Much more dangerous.
"You're right," she said quietly, sitting down. "I have questions. A lot of them."
Isabetta poured two glasses of wine, slid one across the table.
"Then let's start at the beginning. And I promise you, cara, by the time we're done, you'll understand exactly why I've been watching you. And why the man you think you know is the most dangerous person in your life."
Aria's phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out automatically.
Text from Dante: Thinking about you. Can't wait for Wednesday.
She stared at the message. At his photo on the investigation board. At the red string connecting him to her father.
"Who is he?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Who is Dante really?"
Isabetta's smile was cold. Satisfied.
"That," she said, "is exactly where we begin."