Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Garden
The portrait of my grandfather, Don Vito Duca, dominated the northern wall of the library. His painted eyes were cold, unforgiving, and watchful. I pushed the heavy gilded frame aside on its hidden brass hinges, revealing the reinforced steel safe set directly into the stone masonry.
The iron key slipped into the lock with a smooth, oiled click. I dialed Mia’s birthday into the mechanical tumbler: *0-4-1-2*.
A heavy thud resonated within the wall. The door swung open.
Inside, there were no stacks of bearer bonds or velvet pouches of diamonds. My mother had left something far more devastating.
There was a thick manila envelope labeled *JULIAN VANCE & CARMINE MORETTI - 2018-2023*, and beside it, a digital audio recorder with a handwritten note taped to the casing: *Listen to track four, my son.*
I sat at the massive oak desk, plugged the flash drive Elena had given me into my secure laptop, and pressed play on the audio recorder.
The hiss of static filled my headphones, followed by the frail, raspy voice of my mother, Isabella.
*"Lorenzo... if you are hearing this, it means Elena had to run to you, or I am already gone and that wretched girl has made her move."*
A wet cough shook the recording. My hands clenched into fists.
*"Vivien thinks she is clever. She thinks because I was lying in a hospital bed, I couldn't see how she watched my medicine vials. Lorenzo, she didn't just come to steal your empire for the Morettis. Two months before I was diagnosed, she began visiting me with specialty teas. Herbal remedies from her family’s private apothecary in Vermont."*
The room seemed to drop ten degrees.
*"I had the residue analyzed by Dr. Marchetti before he died. Thallium. In microscopic doses. Slow, undetectable, mimicking the aggressive onset of abdominal cancer. I didn't confront her because I had no proof that would hold in court, and you were so enchanted by her elegance that I feared you would think your dying mother had lost her mind."*
Tears of pure, unadulterated rage burned the backs of my eyes. A low, guttural growl rose in my throat.
Vivien hadn't just plotted to take my wealth. She had murdered my mother. She had poisoned the woman who raised me, slowly, agonizingly, while stroking her forehead and promising to take care of her son.
*"The flash drive contains the laboratory results Marchetti sealed before his 'car accident' last winter,"* my mother’s voice continued, growing weaker. *"It contains the financial records showing the payment Vivien’s father received from Carmine Moretti the week after my diagnosis was confirmed. She traded my life for her family's debts, Lorenzo. Don't just kill her. Destroy them. Erase the Vance name from this city."*
The recording clicked off.
The silence that followed was deafening. I sat motionless in the dark library for an hour. Every memory I had of the last year—every tender kiss Vivien had given me, every word of comfort she whispered at my mother’s funeral, every time she adjusted my tie before a business summit—played back in my mind like a movie covered in blood.
My phone vibrated against the desk. It was Rocco.
"Boss. We’re at the safe house. Elena and the kid are asleep. Clean run. No tails."
"Good," I said. My voice didn't sound like my own; it sounded like dry leaves scraping over concrete. "Rocco, contact our medical coroner at Saint Jude's. The one who owes me his license."
Rocco caught the shift in my tone immediately. "What happened, Lorenzo?"
"We are exhuming my mother’s body tonight."
A dead silence fell over the line. "Mother of God... why?"
"Thallium poisoning. Vivien Vance."
I heard Rocco exhale—a sharp, violent hiss of breath. "I’ll assemble the inner circle. We can take Vivien now. Have her in the meatpacking warehouse before dawn. She’ll tell us everything before the sun comes up."
"No," I replied coldly. "Death in a dark warehouse is too merciful. She wants a wedding. She wants the grand stage at the Plaza Hotel with five hundred of the most influential people in the country watching her be crowned the queen of New York. We are going to give her a show she will never forget."
"What are your orders?"
"Let her wake up tomorrow thinking she has won. When she asks about Elena, tell the staff Elena fled in the middle of the night after stealing a silver set. Play into her narrative. Let her think the maid ran out of terror."
"And the Morettis?"
"Julian Moretti will be attending our engagement gala on Friday," I said, staring at the family crest engraved on my desk. "Invite him personally. Tell him the Duca family wishes to propose a truce and offer a twenty percent stake in the port terminals as a wedding gift to unity."
"He’ll walk right into our house."
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"He’ll walk into his own funeral. Just make sure the champagne is cold."
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