Chapter 5 - Venom at the Dinner Table
The Moretti estate in Buckhead sat atop a rolling hill surrounded by six acres of manicured lawn, oak trees, and a ten-foot wrought-iron security wall. To the outside world, it was an architectural masterpiece of stone and glass. Tonight, to me, it looked like a tomb.
It was 12:45 AM when my Suburban pulled through the front gates.
The house was quiet. High ceilings, marble floors, and silent air conditioning created an atmosphere of cold, sterile luxury.
I handed my wet coat to the night butler, stepped softly up the grand spiral staircase, and walked down the carpeted hallway toward Lila’s bedroom.
The door was cracked open an inch. A faint nightlight cast a warm yellow glow across the carpet.
I pushed the door open silently.
Lila was sound asleep in her canopy bed, her dark hair spread across the white pillows. Beside her bed sat a small tray containing a porcelain bowl of half-eaten soup and a small glass bottle of eye drops with a rubber dropper resting beside it.
My chest cracked open.
I walked over to the nightstand, picked up the glass bottle, and slipped it into my pocket alongside a sample of the soup in a small plastic specimen bag I had taken from Vance’s shop.
I leaned down, pressing my lips gently against my daughter’s forehead.
“Daddy’s here, baby,” I whispered into her hair, my voice thick with emotion. “Nobody is ever going to hurt you again. I promise.”
I straightened up, my eyes hardening into flint.
I walked down the hallway toward the master suite.
The double mahogany doors were open. Victoria was sitting in front of her mirrored vanity in a silk robe, brushing her dark hair with slow, rhythmic strokes, listening to classical music playing softly from a hidden speaker.
She looked up in the mirror as I entered the room, offering me a sweet, welcoming smile.
“Vincent,” she said softly, laying her silver brush down on the marble vanity top. “You’re home late. I was getting worried. Did the meeting at the docks take longer than expected?”
I walked over to the small lounge area near the balcony windows, pouring two fingers of twenty-year-old scotch into a crystal tumbler.
“Something like that,” I said, taking a slow sip, keeping my back to her. “I had to handle a small leak in the organization.”
Victoria paused, her reflection in the glass watching me closely. “A leak? Anything serious?”
“Just someone I trusted,” I replied, turning around to face her, leaning against the edge of the dark oak desk. “Someone who thought they could play games behind my back because they thought I was too distracted to notice.”
Victoria’s smile remained fixed, but her hands folded neatly over her lap—a defensive posture. “Well, I’m sure you handled it with your usual efficiency, darling.” She stood up, walking toward me with that effortless grace that had captivated me three years ago. “Did you check on Lila? She fell asleep early. She said her eyes were aching again.”
“I checked on her,” I said flatly. “She’s sleeping.”
Victoria reached out, her soft fingers touching my lapel, gently smoothing down my tie. The scent of her expensive French perfume filled my nose—the same perfume that had sat beside my daughter’s bed every single night for six months.
“Dr. Sterling called while you were out,” Victoria said softly, her eyes swimming with practiced, manipulative sorrow. “He thinks we should prepare ourselves, Vincent. He says by her eighth birthday next month... the vision loss will be total and permanent. He wants us to start looking into specialized residential schools in Boston.”
I stared down into her face.
She looked so innocent. So grieved. It was a performance worthy of an Oscar—a masterpiece of deception crafted by a sociopath who saw a seven-year-old child as nothing more than a legal obstacle blocking her path to a forty-million-dollar trust fund.
“Boston,” I repeated, my voice dropping into a low, terrifying whisper. “You want to send my daughter away to Boston?”
Victoria’s hand froze on my lapel. She looked up into my eyes, and for the very first time since I had met her, she saw the true face of Vincent Moretti—the man who ruled Atlanta’s underground with an iron fist and zero mercy.
The color drained from her cheeks.
“Vincent... what’s wrong with you?” she stammered, taking a small step back. “You’re looking at me like...”
“Like I know,” I said quietly.
The quiet words hit the room like a bomb.
“Know... know what?” she whispered, her hands beginning to tremble.
I reached into my inner coat pocket, pulled out the black binder from Vance’s apothecary, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table between us.
THUD.
The heavy leather cover popped open, revealing the top page: a signed receipt for three hundred milliliters of diluted methanol derivative, stamped with her personal credit card and signature.
Victoria stared at the black binder.
Her eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing terror. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The elegant mask of the loving stepmother shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, leaving behind the pale, panicked face of a trapped predator.
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“Vincent...” she gasped, her voice cracking into a pathetic whimper as she backed up against the vanity. “Vincent, listen to me... it’s not what you think—”
“Do not,” I growled, taking one heavy step toward her, the sound of my boot on the hardwood floor sounding like a executioner’s axe, “say another word.”
