Chapter 2 - THE BROTHER WHO CAME IN WITHOUT KNOCKING
Patrick Gallagher did not look like Desmond.
Not exactly.
Desmond had violence built into his stillness.
Patrick looked polished enough to sell insurance to a priest.
He wore a navy suit despite the hour and carried the replacement bottle between two fingers.
“I heard you were having spasms.”
Sadi looked at the clock.
3:24 a.m.
“How?”
Patrick’s smile remained.
“Security mentioned movement upstairs.”
Desmond did not look away from him.
“Nobody called security.”
The smile weakened.
Patrick entered anyway.
“I was awake.”
“With my medication?”
“The pharmacy courier dropped it with me earlier.”
Sadi glanced at Desmond.
There.
A detail.
Not proof.
But something.
Patrick held out the bottle.
“Your doctor increased the dose.”
Sadi took it before Desmond could.
Label:
Baclofen 20 mg.
She checked the tablets.
Round.
Correct imprint.
Real.
Patrick watched her.
“Is there a problem?”
Sadi smiled.
“I’m a nurse. We assume everything is a problem until paperwork proves otherwise.”
Patrick’s eyes cooled.
“I don’t remember interviewing you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I manage most personnel decisions now.”
Desmond’s voice cut across the room.
“She works for me.”
Patrick looked at his brother.
“Of course.”
Two words.
But Sadi heard the resentment beneath them.
Patrick had become the acting head of Gallagher Holdings after Desmond’s bombing.
Not criminal operations.
The legitimate empire.
Hotels.
Warehouses.
Trucking.
Construction.
A billion-dollar structure requiring signatures Desmond had once provided from the head of a boardroom table.
Now Patrick carried papers upstairs for him to approve.
Sadi had seen it every morning.
“Why are you here at three in the morning?” Desmond asked.
Patrick looked irritated.
“I told you.”
“No.”
Desmond’s voice remained quiet.
“You said you were awake. That isn’t an answer.”
Patrick glanced at Sadi.
She suddenly understood.
He wanted her gone.
Desmond understood too.
“She stays.”
Patrick’s jaw tightened.
Then he set a folder on the dresser.
“Meridian vote moved to nine.”
“What Meridian vote?”
Desmond asked.
Patrick froze.
Tiny.
But Sadi saw it.
Desmond saw it too.
“The acquisition.”
Patrick recovered.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“We discussed it yesterday.”
“No. You discussed warehouse divestiture.”
Patrick stared at him.
“It was part of the same package.”
Desmond’s hands tightened against the blanket.
“Leave.”
“Des—”
“Now.”
Patrick picked up nothing.
He simply turned and walked out.
The door shut.
Sadi exhaled.
“You two seem close.”
Desmond ignored her.
“What acquisition?”
“I’m asking you.”
He looked toward the folder.
Sadi handed it to him.
Meridian Recovery Systems.
Medical logistics company.
Proposed purchase price:
$480 million.
Buyer:
Gallagher Holdings.
Approval scheduled in less than six hours.
Desmond read quickly.
Then slower.
His expression changed.
“I vetoed this.”
“When?”
“Before the bombing.”
“Why?”
“Overvalued. Bad debt. Hidden litigation.”
“Then why is your company buying it now?”
“My signature.”
He turned to the final page.
There it was.
DESMOND J. GALLAGHER.
Approved.
Sadi looked at him.
“Did you sign that?”
“No.”
The same word from the medication problem.
Not his pill.
Not his signature.
Someone had spent six months making decisions through a man who could barely stay awake.
Desmond flipped through the pages.
Then stopped.
Attached medical certification:
EXECUTIVE CAPACITY MODIFICATION.
It stated that because of medication-related cognitive fatigue, Desmond had delegated emergency voting authority to Patrick Gallagher.
Witnessed by:
Dr. Alan Mercer.
Desmond’s physician.
Sadi felt her stomach tighten.
“Did you sign this?”
“No.”
“Then someone didn’t just switch your pills.”
She looked at him.
“They needed you to appear too impaired to run your own company.”
Desmond said nothing.
Then his gaze moved toward the three locked rooms on the second floor.
Guns.
Cash.
Archives.
Sadi remembered his answer during the spasm.
“Your archives.”
His eyes met hers.
“What about them?”
“If someone is forging your authority, maybe this started before the medication.”
Desmond stared toward the door.
Then said:
“Get me dressed.”
“For what?”
“We’re going upstairs.”
“At three-thirty in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“You just took clonazepam.”
“I know.”
“You are not operating that chair through a hallway full of marble.”
His expression hardened.
“Sadi.”
“No.”
Silence.
Then she held out her hand.
“Give me the joystick control.”
Desmond looked offended.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
Five minutes later, she was pushing the emergency manual override while Desmond muttered threats.
They reached the second-floor archive door.
Three locks.
Fingerprint.
Code.
Mechanical key.
Desmond opened all three.
Inside, the room smelled like paper, dust, and old money.
Sadi expected blackmail files.
She did not expect the first box on the center table.
It had her name on it.
SADI CALLAWAY.
May you like
And beneath it:
DO NOT HIRE.
