Chapter 2 - THREE KEYS TO A GRAVE
The heavy carpet outside the master suite muffled the lingering footsteps, but the tension inside remained thick enough to choke on. Dante’s hand was still clamped around my wrist with a grip that belied his frail state. His pulse was ragged, yet the dark intensity in his eyes told me that the predator inside him had awakened.
“Say those names again,” I whispered, keeping my voice below the rustle of the velvet curtains. “And tell me exactly how each of them touches what you consume.”
Dante leaned back against the plush leather headboard, his chest rising and falling in shallow, measured breaths. “Leo Romano handles my personal affairs. He buys my clothes, manages my private accounts, and sources my scotch from a small distillery in Islay. No one else places those orders.”
“And Vincent?”
“Vincent Corvo controls internal security. He sweeps this floor three times a day. He checks every seal, every bottle, every piece of glass that enters this room. If anyone brought a foreign chemical into this house, Vincent either let it happen or did it himself.”
“And your brother?”
Dante’s expression darkened into something desolate and cold. “Matteo handles the union books in West Chicago. But he’s the only family I have left. He dines with me every Sunday. He brings the decanter from the cellar downstairs. It’s an old family ritual—a bottle of 30-year Macallan opened only when the two of us sit down.”
I walked over to the mahogany side table where the crystal decanter sat upon a silver tray. The liquid inside was a rich amber tone, gleaming innocently under the warm light of the chandelier. I pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from my medical kit, fitted them over my hands, and unscrewed the heavy glass stopper.
I didn’t smell it directly—that was a mistake amateur chemists made once and never again. Instead, I wafted the air above the rim toward my nose with a flick of my wrist.
Underneath the heavy oak and peat notes of the scotch lay a faint, almost imperceptible garlic-like odor. It was subtle, completely hidden unless you were trained to look for the signature of a specific toxic metalloid.
“Arsenic trioxide,” I said, looking back at him. “ Tasteless, odorless in small quantities, water-soluble, and easily disguised in aged liquor. Whoever is doing this isn't trying to drop you overnight. They’re micro-dosing you. Enough to cause peripheral neuropathy, muscular atrophy, organ distress, and eventual heart failure. To any doctor looking at a sixty-year-old man under high stress, it looks like a natural, rapid decline.”
Dante’s mouth twisted into a grim line. “How long?”
“Based on the lines on your nails—Mees’ lines—this started at least three months ago. The white bands move outward as the nail grows. You’ve survived four or five distinct spikes in toxicity.”
Dante tried to push himself up, but his knees buckled. I moved quickly, catching his chest and easing him back onto the pillows before he could crash to the floor.
“Don’t be an idiot,” I snapped. “Your nervous system is inflamed. You force your body right now, and your heart will go into arrhythmia.”
“I have a empire to run, Ms. Rossi,” he growled, though his voice cracked with exhaustion. “If my capos see me like this, the blood in the streets won’t stop at Lake Forest.”
“If you die, your empire falls anyway,” I countered, sitting on the edge of the mattress and checking his blood pressure. “Right now, you have one advantage: whoever is poisoning you thinks their plan is working. They think you have three weeks left. They are waiting for you to become completely bedridden so they can make their move without a fight.”
Dante stared at the ceiling, his jaw working as he processed my words. “You want me to play dead.”
“I want you to play dying,” I corrected. “Let them see you weak. Let them see me struggling to keep you comfortable. If they think the poison is taking its final toll, they will get sloppy. They will prepare to transition power. And that is when they’ll expose themselves.”
A soft knock rattled the heavy mahogany door.
Dante’s hand found mine, his fingers digging into my palm. “If you betray me, Camilla, there isn't a corner of this world where you can hide.”
“If I wanted you dead, Mr. Moretti, I wouldn't have spent the last two hours wiping bile off your chin,” I replied coolly, yanking my hand back. “Now lie down and look like a corpse.”
I stepped toward the door, pulled my face into an expression of desperate exhaustion, and unlocked the heavy brass bolt.
Leo Romano was standing in the corridor, flanked by Vincent Corvo. Leo’s tie was loosened, his eyes sharp and probing. Vincent stood half a step behind him, his hand resting casually near his left armpit where his shoulder holster sat.
“How is he?” Leo demanded, his gaze darting past my shoulder toward the bed.
“He’s stable for now,” I lied, letting my shoulders drop as if carrying the weight of the world. “His stomach reacted violently to the herbal mixture I gave him to ease the inflammation. His kidneys are under severe strain. I need clean water, sterile glass vials, and complete quiet.”
Vincent stepped forward, his cold gray eyes locking onto mine. He was a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running from his ear down to his collar. “The Boss doesn't usually scream like that, Ms. Rossi. What did you give him?”
“I gave him a palliative flush,” I answered without flinching, stepping right into his personal space. “When organs fail, toxins build up in the blood. If you want him to die in agony within forty-eight hours, keep questioning my methods. If you want him to last long enough to put his affairs in order, get me the distilled water I asked for.”
Vincent stared at me for three long seconds. A thin, dangerous smirk flickered across his lips before he turned to Leo. “She’s got fire, Leo. Just like her old man’s stories said.”
“Get the water, Vincent,” Leo ordered quietly.
As Vincent walked down the wood-paneled hallway, Leo stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He walked over to the bed, looking down at Dante, who was lying motionless, eyes closed, breathing through his mouth in ragged gasps.
“Did he say anything to you?” Leo asked softly, his back turned to me.
“He complained about the pain,” I said, opening my leather field kit and organizing my glass syringes. “He asked for his brother.”
Leo turned around slowly. “Matteo is in the city. He’ll be here by noon. Ms. Rossi... be honest with me. Does he have weeks, or days?”
I looked Leo dead in the eye, watching every muscle in his face. “If his heart holds out? A week. Maybe less. Whoever has been managing his diet needs to be very careful. One wrong shock to his system now, and he goes into cardiac arrest.”
May you like
Leo nodded slowly, his fingers twitching near his seam pocket. “I understand. Do what you can, doctor. The family is counting on you.”
He walked out, leaving me alone with the sleeping wolf. I looked over at the decanter on the side table. The hunt had begun, and I was standing right in the middle of the firing line.
