Chapter 7 - The Pill in the Water
The lock on the door of the east gable room clicked home with a heavy, final sound at nine-fifteen in the morning.
Sophia Carter sat on the floor with her back against the wooden door, her hands pressed flat against her face. Tears burned her eyes, but she did not allow herself to sob. She knew that every second she wasted weeping was a second closer to the moment Vincent would finish what he had started in the west wing.
She looked around the tiny room under the slate roof.
The window was small, framed in wood, overlooking the steep pitch of the roof that dropped thirty feet down to the stone terrace above the rose garden.
She stood up, walked to the window, and pushed it open.
The cold spring air rushed in, filling her lungs. Below her, a heavy copper drainpipe ran from the roof edge down to the second-floor stone balcony of the west wing—the balcony that opened directly into Isabella’s bedroom.
Sophia looked at the thirty-foot drop, at the wet, slippery copper pipe, at the hard granite flags of the terrace below.
She had never climbed anything higher than a stepladder in her life.
She took a deep breath, remembered the look on Emma’s face when Vincent had torn her pink backpack, and climbed out onto the slate roof.
Meanwhile, in the west wing bedroom, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Isabella lay in the center of her canopy bed, her face unusually pale, her breathing fast and shallow. The excitement and stress of the morning had triggered a sharp spike in her blood pressure.
Emma sat on the velvet stool beside the bed, holding Isabella’s cold hand, her small duck cup resting on her knees.
Vincent Russo stood by the rosewood cabinet, preparing a fresh glass of water.
He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out the small amber bottle he had shown Vivian in the library four nights ago, and uncapped it with a quick, practiced twist of his wrist.
He did not pour two drops. He did not pour four drops.
He tilted the bottle, pouring half of the thick, clear liquid directly into the glass of water.
He turned toward the bed, his sharp face perfectly calm, holding out the glass to the five-year-old girl.
“Here, Isabella,” Vincent said softly, his voice full of gentle, deadly affection. “Drink this. It will make your chest feel lighter.”
Isabella looked at the glass. She looked at Vincent’s cold dark eyes.
“I want my Papa,” Isabella whimpered, shrinking back against her pillows. “Where is Papa?”
“Your father is downstairs with the police, sweetie,” Vincent lied smoothly, stepping closer to the bed, holding the glass to her lips. “Drink it now. You know what happens when you skip your drops.”
Emma stood up on her velvet stool.
She saw the thick, clear liquid swirling in the glass. She smelled the faint, bitter scent of sour apples rising from the water—the same scent she had smelled on the broken glass three days ago.
“No!” Emma shouted, reaching out her small arm to push the glass away. “Sister don't drink!”
Vincent’s patience snapped.
He reached out with his left hand, grabbing Emma by her sweater collar, dragging the three-year-old off the stool, throwing her roughly onto the thick wool rug near the balcony doors.
“Stay down, you brat!” Vincent snarled under his breath, his mask slipping completely now that Nurse Brenda had gone down to the kitchen for fresh linens.
He grabbed Isabella’s small chin with his fingers, forcing her head back, bringing the glass directly to her mouth. “Drink it, Isabella! Do as you’re told!”
Isabella cried out, struggling against his grip, her small hands beating against his sleeve.
Suddenly, the glass doors leading to the outer balcony shattered with a deafening roar.
A heavy wrought-iron chair from the balcony plunged through the glass, raining sharp shards across the rug.
Through the broken frame stepped Sophia Carter.
Her hands were bleeding from the sharp slate of the roof, her clothes were torn, her hair was wild, but her eyes held a light so fierce, so absolute, that Vincent froze in mid-motion.
“Get away from my daughter’s sister!” Sophia screamed.
She didn't hesitate. She didn't pause. She lunged across the room like a mountain lion, throwing her entire weight against Vincent’s chest.
The force of the impact knocked Vincent backward against the nightstand. The silver tray, the medicine bottles, and the glass of spiked water crashed onto the floor in a chaotic mess of glass, metal, and liquid.
Vincent recovered quickly, his face twisted in a murderous snarl. He grabbed Sophia by her hair, slamming her against the carved bedpost.
“You stupid maid,” Vincent hissed, pulling a small, thin steel blade from his sleeve. “I should have thrown you off the roof three weeks ago!”
Sophia fought back with everything she had—scratching at his eyes, biting his hand, holding his wrist to keep the thin blade away from her throat.
On the floor, three-year-old Emma crawled toward the shattered mess near the bed.
She did not look at the knife. She did not look at the blood on her mother’s hands.
She saw a small, bright object lying half-hidden under the edge of the velvet rug—a small, square silver pill box with an engraved crest that had fallen out of Vincent’s coat pocket when he fell.
Beside it lay a folded piece of white paper—a prescription receipt from the Bellini private clinic in Brooklyn, bearing the names of Vincent Russo and Vivian Bellini, listing four bottles of custom aortic toxins.
Emma’s tiny fingers closed around the silver box and the white paper.
She stood up on her small, shaking legs, turned around, and ran out of the bedroom into the long, dark gallery, her small black shoes clicking as fast as they could against the Persian runners.
“Papa!” Emma screamed at the top of her lungs, her three-year-old voice echoing through the massive stone mansion like a trumpet call. “PAPA! SISTER’S HEART IS BURNING!”
Down in the grand study on the first floor, Lorenzo Moretti was sitting at his desk, staring at the four brown glass bottles that had rolled out of the pink backpack.
He had spent twenty minutes examining the pink canvas bag. He had found the small embroidered name EMMA. He had found the plastic duck cup.
And he had found something else.
Deep in the bottom seam of the small bag, caught in the lining, was a faint trace of expensive jasmine perfume—a perfume that no domestic cleaner from the Bronx could ever afford.
A perfume that belonged to Vivian Bellini.
When the small, desperate scream echoed down from the grand staircase, Lorenzo’s heart stopped.
He didn't call his guards. He didn't pick up his gun.
He surged out from behind his desk like a dark storm, throwing open the heavy mahogany doors, taking the grand stairs three at a time.
He reached the gallery just as three-year-old Emma came running toward him, her cheeks wet with tears, her oversized coat flapping around her small legs.
She ran right into his knees, throwing her arms around his legs, holding up the small silver box and the blood-stained white paper with her tiny, shaking hands.
“Big man!” Emma sobbed, looking up into his dark, terrified face. “The bad man is hurting Mama! He gave Sister the angry water!”
Lorenzo looked down at the paper in her small hand. His eyes caught the words Bellini Clinic, Aortic Toxin, and Vincent Russo.
In that single, fraction of a second, the entire world shifted into absolute, terrifying clarity.
May you like
Lorenzo did not speak.
He picked Emma up in his left arm, holding her close against his chest, reached into his jacket with his right hand, pulled out a black semi-automatic pistol, and walked into his daughter’s bedroom.
