Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Chalice
The door swung open, and Victor Romano walked in, followed by Dr. Rossi, an elderly, silver-haired physician who had been on the Moretti family payroll for twenty-five years.
"God, Lucas, you look like a ghost," Victor said, hurrying forward with an expression of intense, brotherly concern. "Sit down, please. Let Rossi run an IV. You're lucky that little urchin found you when she did, though frankly, security is going to pay for this breach with their skins. Where are the woman and the kid? Did Marco take them to the holding cells?"
Lucas sat behind the desk, resting his forearms against the dark polished wood, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He didn't blink.
"I dealt with them," Lucas said evenly.
Victor’s eyes narrowed slightly, a microscopic twitch occurring at the corner of his left eye. "Dealt with them? Meaning?"
"Meaning they are no longer a concern," Lucas replied, his tone chillingly dismissive. "A frightened woman looking for shelter for her sick child. I had Marco escort them off the property through the service gate with five thousand dollars in cash. We don't execute women and children, Victor. Not in this house. You know that."
A flicker of relief passed across Victor’s features, quickly masked by an approving nod. "Of course. Compassionate as always, boss. But reckless. What if she talks to the press? What if she tells the police she walked right past our inner perimeter?"
"She won't," Lucas said. "She knows what happens if she returns. Now, Rossi. Check my vitals and make it quick. I have business to attend to."
Dr. Rossi stepped forward nervously, his medical bag trembling in his grip. He checked Lucas’s blood pressure, listened to his lungs with a cold stethoscope, and administered a small dose of intravenous bronchodilator to clear the remaining inflammation in his airways. All the while, Victor stood near the fireplace, his eyes darting around the study—lingering on the spilled milk on the Persian rug, the slightly askew books on the shelf, the quiet shadows.
"Your pulse is elevated, Mr. Moretti," Dr. Rossi stammered, packing away his instruments. "Your lungs are clear for now, but your bronchial spasms were severe. You need twenty-four hours of absolute bed rest. Another attack like that without immediate albuterol could cause cardiac arrest."
"Thank you, Doctor. Wait in the car. Victor, stay."
The doctor bowed hurriedly and practically fled the room, closing the door behind him.
The silence between the two men grew thick and heavy, like the humidity before a summer storm. Victor leaned his hip against the edge of the leather sofa, crossing his arms.
"You look tense, Lucas," Victor remarked softly. "More than usual. Is there something else?"
"I was thinking about March," Lucas said, taking another sip of his scotch. "Three years ago. The night of the Jersey fire."
Victor’s posture stiffened by a single millimeter. "Why bring that night up now?"
"Because," Lucas murmured, setting his glass down on the desk with a sharp, resonant *clack*, "I received an anonymous dossier this morning. A transmission routed through an encrypted server in Zurich. It claims the Marcone family wasn't alone that night. It claims someone inside the organization opened the perimeter gate to let the strike team into the Jersey terminal."
The room seemed to drop ten degrees. The only sound was the crackle of the embers in the stone fireplace.
Victor forced a dry, incredulous chuckle. "Lucas, that's absurd. We turned every brick in this city upside down. We slaughtered thirty men to avenge Bella and Daniel. Someone is playing mind games with you, trying to sow paranoia in the ranks right before the international shipping contracts renew next week."
"Perhaps," Lucas agreed, his eyes never leaving Victor’s face. "Or perhaps there's a rat in my house who thinks I've grown too soft to smell the poison."
Victor took a step toward the desk, his voice dropping into a low, earnest register that had swayed capos and politicians alike for a decade. "Lucas. Look at me. I stood by your father when the five families tried to carve up Brooklyn. I carried you out of that alley in Queens when you took two slugs to the gut at nineteen. I loved Bella like a sister. I loved Daniel like my own son. If there was a traitor, I would skin him alive with my own hands. You know that."
Lucas looked at the man he had called his brother. He saw the cold, predatory soul beneath the silver hair and the thousand-dollar suit. He felt a rage so immense it threatened to shatter his control, but he swallowed it down, burying it beneath a mantle of pure ice.
"I know, Victor," Lucas said, offering a faint, mirthless smile. "That’s why I’m putting you in charge of tracking down this ghost server. Find out who sent that transmission. Find out who’s whispering my dead wife's name into the dark."
Victor smiled—a tight, victorious curl of his lips. "Consider it done, boss. Go get some sleep. I'll handle the night shift."
Victor turned and walked toward the door. Just before he turned the brass handle, he paused.
"Oh, and Lucas?"
"Yes?"
"You dropped your inhaler earlier. The silver one you always keep in your breast pocket." Victor reached into his own pocket and placed Lucas’s metal prescription inhaler on the small side table by the door. "Marco found it near the entryway. Wouldn't want you to be caught without it again."
"Thank you, brother," Lucas murmured.
The door opened and closed. Victor was gone.
Lucas sat motionless for ten seconds. Then, he stood up, walked to the side table, and picked up the silver inhaler Victor had returned.
He unscrewed the plastic casing, pulled out the pressurized canister, and sniffed the valve.
A faint, bitter scent—like crushed almonds—mingled with the medicinal aerosol.
*Cyanide.* Or a synthetic derivative designed to trigger fatal asphyxiation, perfectly mimicking a lethal asthma attack.
Victor hadn't just watched him collapse earlier.
Victor had swapped his inhaler hours ago.
And if a six-year-old girl in pink pajamas hadn't pressed her own cheap, child-sized medicine into his mouth, Lucas Moretti would have died on that marble floor, his death ruled a tragic, unpreventable medical complication.
Lucas’s fingers closed around the canister until the metal warped.
May you like
"War," Lucas whispered into the empty room. "You want a war, Victor. I will give you a massacre."
***