Chapter 4 - The Snake at the Table
From the elevated windows of the conservatory, I could see the central courtyard of the Rossi mansion.
Dante Rossi was a slick, handsome man in his late thirties, wearing an expensive tailored overcoat and surrounded by heavily armed guards. He walked across the courtyard with the arrogant air of a man who believed he was stepping into a crown he hadn't earned.
Inside the main study, Lorenzo sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his gun resting visibly on the polished wood before him.
Dante pushed the double doors open, stepping inside with a look of theatrical concern on his face.
“Lorenzo!” Dante exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. “My God, cousin, I saw the smoke from the highway! They’re saying the east wing went up in flames! Is the boy... is little Leo safe?”
Lorenzo didn't move. He sat back in his leather chair, watching Dante with cold, unblinking eyes.
“My son is alive, Dante,” Lorenzo said softly.
Dante’s smile flickered for a fraction of a millisecond before he recovered his composure. “Alive? But... the nurses said he wouldn't survive the week. The doctors said his stomach was failing—”
“His stomach wasn't failing,” Lorenzo interrupted, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the desk. “He was being poisoned. Small doses of arsenic mixed into his milk to simulate organ failure.”
Dante’s face paled slightly, though he maintained his confused expression. “Poisoned? In your own home? Lorenzo, that’s terrible! You must execute the staff immediately! The night nurse, the cooks—”
“I don't need to execute the cooks,” Lorenzo said smoothly, picking up a silver pen from the desk. “Because Dr. Vance was caught an hour ago at the border.”
Dante went entirely still.
“Vance is a coward,” Lorenzo continued, his voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper. “When my men put him in a chair, it took three minutes for him to give up the name of the man who paid him two million dollars to ensure my son never grew old enough to claim his inheritance.”
Dante slowly reached toward his jacket pocket. “Lorenzo, you can't believe the word of a crooked doctor—”
CRACK.
Lorenzo didn't even raise his voice, but the sound of his gun firing shattered the silence of the study. A bullet tore through the wood of the desk, striking the marble floor precisely two inches from Dante’s designer leather shoes.
May you like
Dante froze, his hand sticking out from his coat, his eyes wide with pure terror.
“Pull your hand out empty, cousin,” Lorenzo said quietly, aiming the smoking barrel of his pistol directly between Dante’s eyes. “Or your brain will be on my books before you take another breath.”
