Chapter 4 - The Doctor’s Confession
Dr. Jonathan Evans looked older than his fifty-eight years as he walked into the grand parlor. His silver-rimmed glasses were slightly fogged from the chilly lake air, and his fingers tapped nervously against the leather briefcase he clutched to his chest.
Nicholas sat in his wheelchair by the fireplace, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. He hadn't stood up yet; he was still playing the part of the crippled, deteriorating patient for a few more hours.
Hannah stood a few paces behind his left shoulder, arms crossed, watching the physician with the cold eye of an apex predator.
"Nicholas," Dr. Evans said, offering a tight, professional smile as he entered. "Walter told me you wanted an urgent medication review. I brought the updated pharmaceutical logs."
"Sit down, Jonathan," Nicholas said softly, gesturing to the velvet armchair opposite him.
The doctor sat down, setting his briefcase on his knees. He glanced nervously at Hannah, then back at Nicholas. "Is there a problem with the new batch of sedatives? I assure you, the compounding pharmacy we use is—"
"The compounding pharmacy uses pharmaceutical-grade digitalis," Hannah interrupted, stepping forward and dropping a heavy plastic evidence bag onto the glass coffee table between them. Inside sat three small, unmarked white pills. "Which, as any first-year medical student knows, is a cardiac glycoside that induces progressive neuromuscular paralysis and chronic toxicity when administered over a prolonged period to a patient with a spinal recovery profile."
Dr. Evans went completely white. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," the doctor stammered, his fingers digging into the leather of his briefcase. "This is absurd. I am a licensed physician—"
"You were a licensed physician," Nicholas corrected, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. "Right up until the moment Walter tracked the wire transfers from an offshore Cayman account directly to your daughter’s medical school tuition fund. Total amount? Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Source? A shell corporation registered under Claire Whitmore’s maiden name."
The room became a vacuum. Dr. Evans slumped back in his chair, all pretense of innocence completely shattered. He stared at the floor, his chest heaving as reality closed in around him.
"She... she threatened me," the doctor whispered, his voice cracking. "Claire found out about my gambling debts from five years ago. She said if I didn't alter the prescriptions to keep you immobilized, she would expose me to the medical board and ruin my family. I didn't want you to die, Nicholas! I swear to God, the doses were calculated to keep you weak, not to kill you!"
"And yet, another two weeks of your 'calculated doses' would have stopped his heart entirely," Hannah said, her voice dripping with ice. "You violated your Hippocratic oath for a spoiled socialite and a handful of cash. You belong in a prison cell, Doctor."
Nicholas slowly set his whiskey glass down on the table. The sharp *clink* of crystal against glass made Dr. Evans flinch.
The mafia boss leaned forward in his wheelchair. He didn't yell. He didn't threaten him with violence. His voice was terrifyingly calm.
"You're going to write a full, signed confession, Jonathan," Nicholas said quietly. "You’re going to detail every pill, every dollar, and every conversation you had with Claire. Then, Walter is going to escort you to federal authorities in downtown Chicago."
Dr. Evans looked up, tears streaming down his face. "Nicky... please. Have mercy. Twenty years—"
May you like
"Twenty years of loyalty," Nicholas interrupted, his eyes burning with dark fury, "and you traded my legs for a bribe. You’re lucky I’m letting you go to prison instead of the bottom of Lake Michigan."
***
