Chapter 5 - THE BLUE LEDGER
Dominic arrived at the shop twenty minutes later.
He entered without his usual entourage.
His face was pale.
He looked at the broken window.
The scattered pins.
The photograph in Beatrice's hand.
Then he said:
“Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“I'm alive.”
His expression tightened.
“That wasn't what I asked.”
For a moment, she looked at him.
Then whispered:
“No.”
Dominic said nothing.
He simply pulled out a chair.
“Sit.”
She almost laughed.
“Are you ordering me?”
He looked embarrassed.
“I'm asking.”
Beatrice sat.
He took the chair opposite her.
For the first time, the feared mafia boss looked uncertain.
She handed him the photograph.
“My father.”
Dominic examined it.
His eyes narrowed.
“Samuel Whitcomb.”
“You knew him.”
He looked up.
“Yes.”
Beatrice stared.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Dominic hesitated.
“Because I didn't know whether you could trust me.”
She laughed bitterly.
“That's comforting.”
He nodded.
“I deserve that.”
She opened the blue ledger.
Inside were dates, fabric codes, and handwritten measurements.
But beneath the tailoring notes were numbers.
Payments.
Shipping containers.
Laboratory shipments.
And names.
Dominic leaned closer.
His expression changed.
“That's not a tailoring ledger.”
Beatrice shook her head.
“No.”
She turned a page.
A name appeared repeatedly.
JULIAN MERCER.
Then another.
CELESTE RUSSO.
Dominic stopped breathing.
His late wife.
Beatrice looked at him.
“Did Celeste know Mercer?”
Dominic nodded slowly.
“He was her cousin.”
Silence.
Beatrice felt cold.
“Your doctor was related to your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you mention that?”
Dominic stared at the ledger.
“Because I never thought it mattered.”
He looked at her.
“Celeste introduced us.”
Beatrice's heart pounded.
“When?”
“Ten years ago.”
The same year his headaches began.
The same year her father disappeared.
The same year the harbor exploded.
Beatrice turned another page.
A handwritten note appeared beneath a series of dates.
EXPOSURE RESPONSE VARIABLE.
SUBJECT D.R.
CONTINUED MONITORING REQUIRED.
Dominic stared.
“D.R.”
Beatrice nodded.
“Dominic Russo.”
He looked away.
For ten years, he had believed his headaches were caused by trauma.
Now the ledger suggested someone had been studying him.
Beatrice continued reading.
The records described altered garments, chemical analyses, and payments for medical reports.
Some entries referenced conductive textile components.
Others mentioned a separate substance applied to fabric samples.
Beatrice looked at Dominic.
“This may explain why the collar matters.”
He stared.
“Someone was testing something on me?”
“Possibly. We need independent experts to confirm what these records mean.”
Dominic pressed his fingers against his temple.
His face twisted.
Beatrice stood immediately.
“Dominic?”
He bent forward.
Pain crossed his face.
She reached toward him.
Then stopped.
“Can I help?”
He nodded.
She moved the overhead lamp away.
Closed the blinds.
Brought water.
And waited.
After several minutes, his breathing slowed.
He looked up.
“You've done this before.”
Beatrice nodded.
“My father had migraines.”
Dominic stared.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated.
“Before he disappeared.”
The room became silent.
Then Dominic whispered:
“Beatrice.”
She looked at him.
“What if your father wasn't the only person they experimented on?”
Her stomach dropped.
May you like
She looked at the ledger.
And suddenly the numbers seemed far more frightening.
