The Dying Mafia Boss Called Me a Florist—Then I Found the Poison in His Whiskey...

I burst through the top of the service stairs, gasping for air, my clothes stained with red wine and broken glass.

I didn't make it three steps down the hallway before a heavy hand grabbed my arm and dragged me into the private study.

I swung the gun up instinctively, but a firm grip locked around my wrist, forcing the barrel toward the ceiling.

“Easy, Ms. Rossi!” Leo Romano hissed, slamming the door shut and locking it behind us.

I twisted against his grip, but his hold was like iron. “Touch me again and I’ll put a bullet through your knee, Leo!”

Leo released my wrist and raised his hands, stepping back. He looked at the black pouch in my hand, then at the blood-red stains on my clothes.

“You met Vincent downstairs,” Leo said, his voice strangely calm.

“I heard everything,” I spat, aiming the pistol squarely at his chest. “I heard how you and Vincent planned to frame Matteo, murder Dante, and kill me when it was over. Move one inch and I end this right now.”

Leo didn't panic. He slowly reached into his suit jacket.

“Hands where I can see them!” I barked, thumbing the hammer back on the pistol just like my grandfather had taught me.

Leo pulled out a thick, leather-bound notebook and dropped it onto the desk between us.

“Read it,” Leo said softly.

“I’m not reading anything. Step away from the desk.”

“That notebook contains every wire transfer, every offshore account, and every meeting log between Matteo Moretti and the Chicago Outfit for the last six months,” Leo said, his eyes fierce and steady. “I didn't bring you here to be a scapegoat, Camilla. I brought you here because you were the only person alive who could prove what Matteo was doing without getting bought off by his money.”

I glared at him, my mind racing. “I heard you in the cellar! You told Vincent—”

“I told Vincent what he needed to hear so he wouldn't put a bullet in my head while I was standing six feet under!” Leo snapped. “Vincent controls forty armed men in this house. If he knew I was building a case for Dante, I’d be buried under the garage before sunrise!”

“And the poison vials?” I demanded, pointing at the pouch.

“I was securing the evidence before Vincent could destroy it,” Leo replied. He unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a small recording device taped to his chest, its red light blinking steadily. “Every word Vincent said down there is on this tape. The glass, the threats to Elena, the plot with Matteo. All of it.”

I lowered the gun an inch, my brain working through the variables. “Why didn't you just tell Dante?”

“Because Dante wouldn't believe it without absolute proof,” Leo said, his voice heavy with frustration. “Matteo is his brother. Dante protected that boy his entire life. If I went to Dante six weeks ago and said 'your brother is killing you,' Dante would have shot me for disloyalty. I needed the doctor who could identify the chemical, and I needed the physical evidence.”

The pieces began to re-align. The duffel bag of cash. The insistence on hiring someone outside of Chicago. The medical records he had delivered to my shop.

“If you’re telling the truth,” I said, “then Vincent is waking up in the cellar right now with a head injury and a lot of broken wine bottles. He knows I know.”

Leo’s face went white. “He has the security team on high alert. If he realizes the gig is up, he’ll trigger a lockdown. He’ll lock the doors from the outside and burn this house to the ground with everyone inside it.”

“Not if we get to Dante first,” I said.

Before we could move toward the door, a sudden loud blast echoed through the mansion.

The heavy mahogany doors at the front entrance had been blown inward. Shouting erupted from the grand hall, followed by the rapid, rhythmic chatter of automatic rifle fire.

Glass shattered downstairs. Men were screaming.

“Matteo’s men,” Leo muttered, drawing a nickel-plated pistol from his belt. “The capos must have rejected his bid for leadership downstairs. He’s taking the house by force.”