Chapter 4 - The Laboratory Report
Spring arrived in Chicago with a brutal, freezing rain that beat against the massive glass windows of the estate like a drumroll of impending doom.
Alessandro’s health seemed to fluctuate. Some days he was sharp, reviewing hundreds of pages of legal documents with his old predatory focus; other days, he looked pale, his breathing shallow, his hands trembling as if fighting off a deep-seated fatigue.
"He’s tired today, Mama," Emma whispered to me as we walked down the hall on a Tuesday morning. She was carrying a plastic teacup filled with water for Mr. Moretti.
"Be very quiet, sweetheart," I instructed, adjusting my cleaning cart.
When we entered the west-wing office, Alessandro was sitting at his desk, but his head was bowed, his forehead resting against his folded arms. A glass of amber liquid sat untouched beside him.
"Mr. Moretti?" I called out softly, stepping closer.
He lifted his head slowly. His skin had a grayish pallor, and his eyes were bloodshot. "Nora... take Emma outside."
"Sir, you look terrible. Let me call a doctor—"
"No doctors," he rasped, gripping the armrests of his wheelchair with white knuckles. "Victor... Victor was here an hour ago. We shared a drink. A toast to our 'renewed partnership.'"
A sudden, cold terror gripped my chest. I remembered the conversation I had overheard in the library. I remembered Victor’s threat.
On the corner of the heavy oak desk sat a leather-bound folio, left open. Beside it lay a printed document bearing a medical letterhead—a comprehensive toxicology and blood panel analysis bearing Alessandro’s name.
My eyes scanned the lines of medical jargon until they landed on the bold conclusion at the bottom of the page:
Elevated concentrations of heavy metal neurotoxins detected. Chronic, low-dose administration consistent with progressive neurological suppression.
It wasn't the spinal injury keeping Alessandro weak.
It was poison.
Slow, deliberate, systematic poisoning administered by someone with daily access to his office, his drinks, and his private quarters.
"He’s killing you," I breathed out, the words escaping my mouth before I could stop them.
Alessandro looked up at me, a bitter, tragic smile touching his lips. "I figured as much. Every time I drink the scotch Victor brings me after a board meeting, the numbness spreads further up my spine. He thinks I’m a vegetable waiting for the final plug to be pulled."
"We need to go to the police," I urged, stepping closer, my heart racing. "We need to leave this house right now—"
"The police in this city are on Victor’s payroll, Nora," Alessandro interrupted, his voice dropping to an intense, urgent whisper. "If you walk out those doors right now with that report, Victor’s men will intercept you before you reach the highway. He cannot afford witnesses. Not now, when he’s three days away from voting me out of the holding company permanently."
Emma tugged on my skirt. "Mama, why is the man crying?"
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I looked down. A single tear had traced a path down Alessandro’s rugged cheek—not from pain, but from the crushing realization of ultimate betrayal by his most trusted friend.
"We're not going to run," Alessandro said, straightening his shoulders with a sudden, terrifying surge of iron will. He reached into the hidden drawer of his desk and pulled out a heavy, black steel Glock, laying it quietly across his lap beneath a folded newspaper. "We are going to lay a trap."
