Chapter 4 - Blood in the Water
Within ninety seconds, the master suite became a chaotic triage unit.
Dr. Antonio Rossi, the Moretti family’s personal trauma physician, rushed in carrying two heavy black medical bags, flanked by two nurses.
"Out of the way!" Rossi barked, tossing aside his coat as Luca laid Grace down on the center of the bed.
"She's anaphylactic! Her airway is closing!" Rossi yelled, immediately ripping open an auto-injector. "Administering epinephrine now!"
I fell to my knees beside the bed, grabbing Grace’s thrashing little hand. "Grace! Mommy’s here, baby, look at Mommy! Breathe, sweetheart, please breathe!"
Grace’s chest heaved violently. The needle plunged into her thigh. For five agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Then, she let out a piercing, shuddering scream, sucking in a desperate lungful of oxygen.
Rossi didn't hesitate. He jammed an oxygen mask over her face, while a nurse hooked up an IV line to her tiny arm, pumping fluids and high-dose antihistamines into her system.
"Vitals are stabilizing," the nurse called out, checking the portable monitor. "Heart rate 140, oxygen saturation climbing to 94. The swelling is beginning to subside."
I collapsed against the side of the mattress, burying my face in the blankets, weeping so hard my whole body convulsed.
A heavy, steady hand came down on my back. Luca was kneeling beside me on the floor. His face was completely devoid of color, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently beneath the skin.
"What caused this?" Luca asked. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a terrifying, vibrating cadence that made the doctor freeze. "Does she have an allergy, Emily? Peanuts? Dairy?"
"No," I sobbed, shaking my head violently. "No! She eats peanut butter all the time! She’s never had an allergic reaction in her life! Never!"
Dr. Rossi carefully pulled down Grace’s lower eyelids, examined the rash on her torso, and then reached for a small UV light from his kit. He leaned over, sniffing her breath, then inspected her lips.
"This isn't a food allergy, Don Moretti," Rossi said gravely, meeting Luca's murderous gaze.
The temperature in the room plummeted to absolute zero.
"Speak," Luca commanded.
"It’s an alkaloid poison," Rossi said, pulling off his latex gloves with a snap. "Derived from nightshade or concentrated digitalis. In a grown adult, this dose would cause severe nausea, cardiac arrhythmia, and temporary paralysis. But in a four-year-old child weighing thirty-five pounds? Without an immediate shot of epinephrine, her respiratory tract would have collapsed within fifteen minutes."
"Poison," I repeated the word, but my brain refused to process it. "Poison? She just ate pancakes..."
"No," Luca said, his voice dropping into a dark, bottomless abyss. "The pancakes were made fresh by Mrs. Higgins in front of Marco. When did she first consume anything in this house?"
My memory flashed back to two hours ago. The grand dining room. Thirty elite guests. Vanessa sneering at my daughter.
*“Mommy, can I eat something first?”*
*“Then she can wait somewhere suitable.”*
*And the untouched plate in front of her.*
"The dining table," I gasped, looking at Luca in pure horror. "Before you arrived. Grace was sitting at the table. There was a glass of sparkling apple cider poured for the guest who was supposed to sit there. Grace took a sip while Vanessa was screaming at me. Just one tiny sip before Vanessa slapped the glass out of her hand!"
Luca stood up.
He didn't speak. He didn't curse.
He walked to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a custom matte-black Kimber .45 pistol. He racked the slide back with a sharp, metallic *CLACK*, loaded a round into the chamber, and slid it into his shoulder holster.
"Marco," Luca said through his radio earpiece.
"Yes, Boss?" Marco’s voice crackled through.
"Lock the estate gates. No one leaves. Bring the head of kitchen staff, the head of catering, and review the security footage from the dining room banquet prep over the last four hours."
"Boss... the glass on the dining table was set for seat fourteen," Marco reported, his voice tight.
"Who was supposed to sit in seat fourteen?" Luca asked.
A pause on the line. Then Marco delivered the answer:
"You, Don Moretti. Seat fourteen was your seat."
The truth struck the room like a lightning bolt.
The poison wasn't meant for my four-year-old daughter.
It was meant for the Don of Chicago. Grace had taken a sip of the drink meant to assassinate her father.
Luca closed his eyes for three seconds. When he opened them, the man who had looked at me with tender regret five minutes ago was gone. In his place stood the ruthless sovereign of the Chicago underworld.
"Emily," Luca said softly, turning back to me.
He walked over and knelt down before me. He took my shaking hands into his own, pressing his lips to my knuckles.
"Stay here with Rossi. Two armed guards are stationed right outside this door. Grace is safe now. The medicine will flush the poison out of her system within a few hours."
"Where are you going?" I asked, terrified, gripping his sleeves.
"To finish this," he said calmly. "Someone tried to kill me in my own house. And because of their cowardice, my daughter nearly died in your arms."
"Luca, please don't get yourself killed," I blurted out.
The words came out before I could stop them. Despite the five years of abandonment, despite the anger and the pain, the thought of him dying made my heart twist into knots.
A ghost of a smile touched Luca’s lips. He reached up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
"They couldn't kill me when I had nothing to live for, Emily," he murmured, his thumb brushing my jawline. "They certainly can't kill me now that I have you and Grace back."
May you like
He stood up, turned on his heel, and walked out the door, the heavy oak panels sealing behind him like the gates of hell closing shut.
***
