Chapter 2 - The Poisoned Pulse
The private physician, a pale, nervous man named Dr. Alistair, practically tripped over his own medical bag as he rushed across the sprawling bedroom. He had treated gunshot wounds, stab scars, and broken bones on the city's most feared criminals, but standing near Damian Volkov always felt like dancing on the edge of an active volcano.
"Mr. Volkov," Dr. Alistair panted, opening his stethoscope. "Your security team said your heart rate spiked dangerously. We need to administer the stabilizer immediately—"
"Shut up and listen," Damian interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. He didn't remove his hand from Lila's. "Tell me what you hear."
Dr. Alistair blinked, utterly bewildered. He looked from Damian’s pale face down to my little girl, whose yellow rain boots were dangling over the edge of the mattress. "I... beg your pardon, sir?"
"The rhythm," Damian hissed, his eyes flashing with a manic light. "Put your stethoscope here. Right where her hand is. Tell me what my heart is doing."
Trembling, Dr. Alistair stepped forward, pressing the cold metal disc against Damian’s chest, right beneath Lila's small palm. The doctor closed his eyes, concentrating. Seconds ticked by. The color rapidly drained from Dr. Alistair’s face until he looked like a corpse himself.
"My God," Dr. Alistair whispered, stumbling backward. "That's... that's impossible."
"Explain," Damian demanded.
"The digital monitor downstairs showed ventricular fibrillation—an erratic, chaotic rhythm that usually precedes total cardiac arrest within minutes," Dr. Alistair stammered, wiping sweat from his brow. "But... but right now? Your heart rate has stabilized into a synchronized beat. It's matching the micro-vibrations of... of the child's pulse."
The room went dead silent.
I stared at Dr. Alistair, my heart leaping into my throat. A four-year-old child was regulating the heart of a mafia kingpin simply by touching him? It sounded like a gothic fairy tale spun by a madman, yet the proof was right in front of us, visible on the frantic digital readout of the doctor's portable ECG machine.
Damian looked down at Lila. A profound, terrifying realization crossed his hardened features.
"They poisoned me with digitalis glycoside," Damian muttered, more to himself than to us. "A slow-acting cardiac toxin designed to mimic a massive heart attack so the autopsy would look natural. It attacks the electrical pathways of the heart, making it impossible to control."
He looked up at Viktor, who was standing stiffly by the door.
"And who brought me the final glass of vintage Bordeaux last night, Viktor?" Damian’s voice was terrifyingly calm.
Viktor swallowed hard. "Your chief financial officer, Marcus Vance, sir. He said it was a peace offering from the syndicates across the bay."
"Marcus," Damian repeated, tasting the name like poison on his tongue. "My own brother-in-arms. He thought he could inherit Grayhaven House while my body was still warm."
Damian shifted his weight, wincing slightly as a wave of pain washed over him, but Lila instantly pressed down harder, her tiny fingers acting as a living anchor against his chest. The erratic beeping on the monitor slowed into a steady, rhythmic pulse.
Damian looked straight at me, his gaze locking onto my soul.
"What is your name, maid?"
May you like
"Clara, sir," I whispered, my voice shaking.
"Clara," Damian said slowly, his voice carrying the weight of an absolute decree. "From this moment on, you are no longer a maid. You and your daughter belong to me. And anyone who tries to take you away from this room will learn why they call me the Devil of Baltimore."
