Chapter 2 - THE WHISPERS IN THE MARBLE HALLSMidnight at the Vossi estate usually brought a heavy, suffocating peace. Tonight, however, the shadows seemed sharper, the silence pregnant with impending violence.
Domenico rolled his wheelchair silently down the East Wing corridor, utilizing the custom rubber tires Bruno had installed to deaden any sound. His mind raced back to the lab, replaying Dr. Palermo's final warning: If you've been taking this for six months, your body is saturated. The moment you stop, your nervous system will violently rebel before it starts to rebuild. You will feel pain—excruciating pain—as the chemical locks break.
He didn't care about the pain. He craved it. Pain meant his body was alive. Pain meant the betrayal was real.
As he neared the grand staircase, low murmurs drifted from the conservatory. The doors were cracked open a fraction, spilling a sliver of golden light onto the Persian rug.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Silvio."
It was Camille. Her voice, usually honeyed and smooth, held a sharp, panicked edge.
"Relax, carissima," Silvio Marchetti's smooth, aristocratic laugh echoed softly. "The cripple is completely neutralized. Dr. Cole confirmed the toxin has accumulated enough in his bloodline that even if he miraculously stopped taking the pills today, his legs are permanently dead meat. The wedding is in two weeks. Once the papers are signed, the Vossi empire belongs to us. Every dock, every warehouse, every single dime."
"And the maid's brat?" Camille hissed. "She's been spending too much time around his chair. Yesterday I saw her picking up something from the floor—"
"A stray piece of lint, nothing more," Silvio cut her off, his tone dripping with arrogant dismissal. "She's three years old, Camille. Even if she found something, she wouldn't know a neurotoxin from a sugar cube. Stop letting your nerves get the better of you."
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Outside the door, Domenico's hand slowly slid inside his vest pocket. His fingers brushed against the small white pill little Nina had handed him.
Twelve years of brotherhood. Twelve years of standing back-to-back in the blood-soaked alleys of New York. And Silvio had traded it all for a crown that was never his to take.
