Chapter 4 - The Poison Protocol
The next afternoon, the Castellano estate was suffocatingly quiet.
The sun shone brightly through the high arched windows of Victor’s bedroom, casting long, golden quadrangles across the carpet. Outside, four armed guards paced the perimeter fence, their rifles concealed beneath heavy overcoats.
I stood at the stainless-steel prep table in Victor's private medical room, staring at the small glass ampoule lying beside a sterile twenty-milliliter syringe.
My reflection in the glass cabinet looked terrified—pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back into a tight, anxious knot.
"You're late," Victor’s deep voice echoed from the doorway.
I spun around. He sat in his wheelchair, dressed in his usual immaculate dark trousers and crisp white shirt. Mrs. Vega stood behind him, her face an unreadable, stern mask.
"Mrs. Vega," Victor said without looking back at her. "Leave us. Ensure the corridor cameras are looped for the next twenty minutes."
"Yes, Mr. Castellano," Mrs. Vega replied quietly. She stepped out into the hallway and pulled the heavy mahogany doors shut until the latch clicked.
The moment the door closed, Victor unlocked the brakes of his wheelchair, stood up smoothly, and walked across the room toward me.
Seeing him walk was still a shock to my system—a man six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, moving with the quiet, terrifying grace of a predator. He walked over to the prep table, his dark eyes falling onto the glass ampoule lying beside the syringe.
"Julian’s work?" Victor asked softly.
"He gave it to me outside the hospital last night," I whispered, my voice trembling. "He paid Mom’s bills. He paid Lily’s tuition. He thinks I’m going to kill you at two o'clock."
Victor picked up the ampoule, holding it up to the afternoon light, examining the fluid with cold detachment.
"Swiss paralytic," Victor murmured. "Julian always did prefer expensive tools."
He set the ampoule back down and looked at me. "Are you ready, Elena?"
"No!" I blurted out, my composure finally breaking. "Victor, this is insane! What if the paralytic stops your heart permanently? What if I miscalculate the dose? I'm an assistant, not an anesthesiologist!"
Victor reached out, taking my cold, shaking hands into his warm, steady palms. His touch was grounding, surprisingly gentle for a man whose hands had brought down empires.
"Look at me, Elena," he commanded softly.
I looked up, meeting his dark, unyielding eyes.
"I have spent three years trapped in this room, watching the men who murdered my family tear this city apart," Victor said, his voice filled with a quiet, absolute conviction. "I would rather die on those docks today trying to end this than spend another year hiding in this chair. Do you understand me?"
I swallowed hard, wiping a stray tear from my cheek with my shoulder. "Yes."
"Then draw the dose," Victor said. He turned around, sat back down in the wheelchair, and extended his left arm, pulling up his sleeve to expose the central IV line.
My fingers shook so badly I almost dropped the syringe needle twice. I snapped the top off the Swiss ampoule, drew the clear fluid into the barrel, and purged the air bubbles with a quiet flick-flick of my finger.
I approached the wheelchair, kneeling on the floor beside him. The tip of the needle hovered an inch from his rubber IV port.
"Once I inject this," I whispered, looking up at his face, "you'll have less than thirty seconds before your lungs lock up. You won't be able to speak. You won't be able to breathe."
Victor looked down at me, a strange, profound tenderness softening his harsh features.
"I trust you, Elena," he said softly.
May you like
Those four words slammed into my chest harder than any threat ever could. I trust you. A mafia lord, a man feared by millions, placing his very life into the hands of a girl who used to wipe down diner tables.
I pushed the needle into the port and depressed the plunger.
