Every doctor in the world said he would never walk again.

The toxicologist arrived at two in the afternoon.

Her name was Dr.

Anita Voss, and she had been recommended by a colleague of Dr.

Ferrara's in Zurich — someone with no connection to Milan, no connection to the Rinaldi name, and no reason to be anything other than precise.

She examined the capsule for eleven minutes.

She asked Lorenzo four questions.

Then she sat down.

"This is a compound called Neratovex," she said.

"It's not commercially available.

It was developed in a German research program about eight years ago and shelved after ethical concerns in the trial phase.

The mechanism suppresses myelin repair in damaged neural pathways.

Essentially, it prevents the nervous system from rebuilding connections that were disrupted by trauma."

"Would it cause permanent damage?" Lorenzo asked.

"Not inherently.

The suppression is active only while the compound is being administered.

Once exposure stops, the repair process resumes — slowly, but it resumes.

In a patient with the injury profile you've described, I would expect meaningful recovery to begin within two to three months of cessation."

"The three specialists who assessed me all said permanent nerve damage."

Dr.

Voss looked at him carefully.

"That would be an unusual consensus for a patient whose injury was not, in itself, severe enough to guarantee permanence.

What was the original trauma?"

"A car accident.

Spinal compression.

The initial assessment said there was damage but that recovery was possible."

"And then?"

"And then a second assessment, six weeks later, said the damage had progressed and recovery was no longer expected."

"Six weeks," she said.

"That would be consistent with early Neratovex exposure beginning to show measurable effect on nerve function tests."

Lorenzo was quiet.

"Someone coached those results," he said.

"I can't tell you that from a capsule.

But I can tell you that the progression you're describing — initial hope, followed by rapid deterioration, followed by three specialists reaching the same permanent conclusion — is not a typical clinical picture for the injury you've described.

It's a managed picture."

Dr.

Ferrara, who had been sitting to the side, spoke.

"We need the names of every physician who assessed Lorenzo in the six months after the accident.

And their financial records for the same period."

"I'll start with Dr.

Marchetti," Lorenzo said.

"He was the one who delivered the permanent diagnosis.

He was also the one Celeste recommended when my original neurologist retired."

Dr.

Ferrara looked up.

"Celeste recommended your neurologist?"

"She said she had researched the best specialists in Europe.

I had no reason to question it at the time." He paused.

"I had no reason to question anything at the time."

Dr.

Voss left with the capsule for full laboratory analysis.

She would have a written report within forty-eight hours.

At four o'clock, Fausto came to the study.

"Dr.

Marchetti," he said, setting a folder on the desk.

"Three payments.

Transferred from a private account registered to a holding company in Luxembourg.

The holding company traces back to a family trust." He paused.

"The Ferretti family trust."

Celeste's family name was Ferretti.

Lorenzo opened the folder.

Three transfers.

The first dated seven weeks after the accident.

The second three months later.

The third on the date of the final specialist consultation — the one where all three doctors had sat across from him and told him, gently and in agreement, that he would not walk again.

"She paid for the diagnosis," Lorenzo said.

"It appears so."

"And the other two specialists?"

"Still checking.

But Marchetti is clear."

Lorenzo closed the folder.

He thought about that consultation.

The careful language.

The sympathetic faces.

The way Celeste had held his hand afterward and said, *We'll get through this together.

I'm not going anywhere.*

She had paid for the room, the diagnosis, and the comfort that followed it.

"I want Marchetti's license reviewed," Lorenzo said.

"Everything goes to the medical board.

Dr.

Ferrara will handle the formal submission."

"And the payments?

Do we go to the police?"

Lorenzo thought about Edoardo Ferretti, sitting in his office at the Procura della Repubblica.

"Not yet," he said.

"We build the complete picture first.

Every payment, every person, every date.

When we go, we go with everything.

We don't give them a single gap to work with."

Fausto nodded and left.

Lorenzo sat alone.

He thought about Marco, who had known for eight months and said nothing.

Who had come to dinner and asked how he was sleeping.

Who had given a speech at the engagement party about family and loyalty.

He picked up his phone.

Marco had sent six messages since the previous night.

Lorenzo had not replied to any of them.

He read them now, in order.

The first three were apologies.

The fourth said: *She's been in contact with me.

I didn't respond.

I want you to know that.*

The fifth said: *I know I don't deserve anything from you.

But if you're building a case, I have records.

Dates, communications, everything she sent me.

I kept them.

I don't know why I kept them.

Maybe I always knew it would come to this.*

The sixth said: *I'm sorry, Lorenzo.

I know that means nothing.

But I am.*

Lorenzo stared at the screen for a long time.

Then he typed: *Send me everything.

All of it.

Tonight.*

He set the phone down.

Outside, he heard a car on the gravel.

Then Rosa's voice, and a lighter, smaller voice answering her.

Mia.

He stood up from the desk and walked to the window.

Eight steps, then four more.

Twelve steps.

His legs still shook, but less than yesterday.

He watched the small girl cross the courtyard below, her serious eyes moving over the estate the way they always did — taking inventory, noticing things.

She looked up at his window.

He raised one hand.