Page 81 of Ruthless

When I return upstairs, Angela and Jasmine are changing sheets and restocking bedside supplies for the night shift. Jasmine’s teasing Angela about getting friendly with someone named Roberto, and then their conversation devolves into a boisterous discussion about the latest episode ofLove Island. Leaving them to it, I head into the small back office to make myself useful.

Sinking into a chair, I sort through the stack of abandoned paperwork in peaceful silence, skimming the pages before feeding them into the shredder next to the water cooler. Once that’s full, the shredded pieces will be burned in the furnace. I asked Angela why we bother with shredding everything if it all ends up as ash anyway, and she explained that Dante prefers us to be thorough.

Makes sense. Dante is nothing if not thorough. Inallthings.

As I flip through the pages, a name catches my eye.

Jackson Reed. Deceased.

Frowning, I flip through his file and read meticulously typed notes about excessive blood loss and hypovolemic shock.

It doesn’t make any sense. I stood in that room—or more like,hungthere—during the man’s torture. Dante may have roughed him up, sure, but he didn’t inflict enough damage to cause fatal internal bleeding.

I continue thumbing through the report for several more minutes to see if I missed anything.

Nothing.

Goosebumps erupt on my arms.

A few missing teeth and fingernails and mild concussion don’t mesh with internal bleeding…which implies that Jackson Reed died becausesomeonekilled him.

With a racing heart, I struggle to recall Luca transporting him to the clinic. This happened just before the museumbenefit. Who was on duty? Was this an accident or murder? Or am I overthinking things?

My vision swims, and despite other possible explanations, my gut screamssabotage. This lead of Dante’s wascooperating.

Did the mole kill Jackson?

I snatch the paper detailing Jackson’s death out of his file and stuff it into the back pocket of my scrubs to show to Dante. But first, I want to log in to the computer at the front of the clinic and check the schedules for the guards and nurses from last week.

The door to the office cracks open just as I stick Reed’s file at the bottom of the pile, and Angela pokes her head in. “Marco’s here.”

Based on her strange look, my expression must be off, so I mutter some excuse about a headache and rush out. Too dangerous to drag her into this mess.

I stall at the intake station under the guise of needing to check my schedule. As my fingers fly across the keys to bring up the employee rosters from the day Jackson was pronounced dead, Marco leans against the wall, waggling his eyebrows at Jasmine. To her credit, the nurse just rolls her eyes and waves at me before venturing back to the patient bay.

When I discover the previous week’s schedule was already archived and hidden from anyone lacking level four administrative clearance, I grit my teeth over the dead end and resolve to ask Dante.

Later that evening, my temples throb as I focus on decoding Enzo’s letter from the night of the Conti’s gala. I’ve read the words so many times that they’re beginning to blur together.

Two quotes without any context at all.

“And I, John, heard and saw these things. And, after I had heard and seen, I fell down, so as to adore before the feet of theAngel, who was revealing these things to me.” – Revelation 22:8

“Now at times an Angel of the Lord would descend into the pool, and so the water was moved. And whoever descended first into the pool, after the motion of the water, he was healed of whatever infirmity held him.” – John 5:4

When Dante first read them, he paused and cocked his head thoughtfully to one side.

“Huh.”

I studied his pensive expression. “What’s up? Figure out anything?”

He hesitated, then laughed it off. “Not really. I just remembered that ‘John’ is the English equivalent of ‘Giovanni.’”

I frowned. “Do you know anyone named Giovanni? Someone who might be working with Enzo?”

Dante poked his tongue in his cheek. “No. No one comes to mind.”

Besides the religious connection between Dante’sCreation of Adamtattoo and the nature of the quotes themselves, we have nothing to go on. My brain hurts from all my futile attempts to unlock some hidden meaning, so when he enters the room, I’m happy for the distraction.