Chapter 4 - The Poison in the VialsBy one in the afternoon, the Moretti estate had become an armed fortress masquerading as a silent country home.
Luca had not called the police. In the world of the Chicago docks, involving the authorities in an internal betrayal was an admission of weakness that invited rivals to tear your empire apart from the outside. Instead, four members of his inner circle—silent, lethal men who had served his father before him—had slipped through the service entrance, dressed in plain mechanic’s coveralls, blending into the background of the sprawling estate.
In the master bedroom, Dr. Julian Chen, a private physician on Luca’s personal payroll, was examining Eleanor.
He was running a portable spectrometer over three small, amber glass vials that Marco had recovered from a locked false drawer in Patricia’s private suite in the servants' wing.
"Haloperidol and succinylcholine," Dr. Chen muttered, setting the vials down on a silver tray with a sickening clink. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, his face dark with fury. "High-dose neuroleptics combined with a paralytic. Given in micro-doses through her evening IV drip. It wouldn't kill her immediately, Luca. It would induce muscle rigidity, mimic the symptoms of secondary ischemic strokes, and destroy her ability to vocalize or form coherent fine-motor movements."
Eleanor was lying in bed, freshly washed, a clean cashmere blanket tucked around her shoulders. She had refused to let me leave her side. Every time I stepped more than two feet from the mattress, her fingers would twitch, searching the air until they brushed against the sleeve of my faded cardigan.
The medicine made the room spin, she signed, her movements much slower now, her energy flagging from the emotional storm of the morning. My tongue felt like leather. When I tried to move my fingers to sign to the other girls, they laughed. They said I was swatting flies.
I translated with a knot of nausea burning in the pit of my stomach.
Luca was standing by the fireplace, an unlit cigar held between his knuckles. When he heard my translation, he turned his head slowly toward Dr. Chen.
"If she had taken another dose tonight?" Luca asked.
"Her diaphragm would have seized within forty minutes," Dr. Chen said bluntly. "In an elderly woman with a history of cardiovascular events, the medical examiner would have ruled it respiratory failure brought on by a massive stroke. No autopsy would have been flagged without a family challenge. And with Marcus Vance holding the medical power of attorney, no autopsy would ever have been permitted."
Luca’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He picked it up, tapped the screen, and held it to his ear.
"Speak."
It was Marco, monitoring the main gates from the security gatehouse.
"Boss. A silver Audi sedan just pulled up to the outer intercom. It’s Dr. Arthur Bell—Vance’s private family physician from the South Side clinics. He’s with two men. They’re claiming they have an emergency medical transfer order signed by the county health board."
Luca looked down at his mother. Her eyes were wide with panic, her hands fluttering against the bedsheets like wounded birds.
Don't let them take me, she pleaded, looking at me. Please, Claire. Don't let them take me to that place.
"They aren't taking you anywhere, Mrs. Moretti," I said aloud, taking her cold hands between mine. "I promise."
Luca walked over to the side of the bed. He reached down and rested his hand over both of ours. The contrast was startling: my small, work-roughened fingers, his mother’s frail, spotted hands, and his massive, scarred knuckles enclosing us both in an unyielding cage of warmth.
"Listen to me, Claire," Luca said, his voice dropping into that deep, magnetic timber that made the hairs on my arms rise. "You need to leave through the rear beach access. Marco has a boat waiting at the private pier. He will take you straight down the shoreline to Navy Pier, and my driver will bring you to your daughter’s school."
My breath caught. "Sophie?"
"Marcus Vance knows you were placed here by the agency this morning," Luca explained, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that took my breath away. "Patricia had your file on her desk. If things go wrong here tonight, Vance’s people will look for leverage. They will look for your girl."
A cold, icy terror gripped my chest—worse than any threat Patricia could have uttered. "No. Not Sophie. She can't hear them if they come. She won't know to run."
"Nobody is going to touch your daughter," Luca said, his fingers tightening around mine until the pressure was almost painful. "I swear to you on my mother's life. But you have to bring her to me. I need you both behind my walls."
"Why me?" I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "I'm just a temporary maid, Mr. Moretti. I was just trying to pay my rent."
Eleanor’s hand moved beneath ours.
With incredible effort, the old woman lifted her left hand and formed two slow, deliberate signs.
My daughter, she signed, looking up at Luca. Keep her.
May you like
Luca looked at his mother's hands, then back to my face. The ruthless, untouchable mafia prince of Chicago looked at me not as a subordinate, but as the woman who had brought his dead world back to life with a few silent movements of her fingers.
"Go get your child, Claire," Luca whispered. "And let me prepare this house for our guests."
