Chapter 3 - The Broken Alibi
"Prove it."
Vance's challenge cut through the tense air of the penthouse. He stepped closer, towering over Ellie, using his sheer physical presence to intimidate her. "A little waitress from the catering agency thinks she's a forensic toxicologist now? Boss, she could be a Vanguard plant herself. Look at how fast she moved. Who carries neurological music therapy knowledge in their back pocket while serving appetizers?"
Damien’s eyes narrowed, shifting back to Ellie. The distrust in his gaze was a physical weight. Every guard in the room re-anchored their hands over their weapons, waiting for a single command to execute whoever the boss pointed at.
"I’m an occupational therapy student," Ellie said clearly, staring straight into Damien's terrifying black eyes without flinching. "I pay my tuition by working private events. And if you don't believe me about the poison, look at the bottle yourself. The residue isn't white like powdered milk. It’s crystalline. Tetrodotoxin derivative. It paralyzes the respiratory system within minutes, mimicking sudden infant death syndrome. Clean, untraceable—unless you know what to look for."
Damien snatched the bottle from her hands. He didn't taste it—he was too smart for that—but he smeared a microscopic drop onto the stainless steel blade of his pocket knife and watched it hiss slightly against the metal.
The silence in the room became absolute. The chemical reaction confirmed every word Ellie uttered.
May you like
Damien’s head snapped toward Vance. The betrayal in the mafia boss's eyes was absolute, blinding, and lethal. "You had access to the vault, Vance. Only you."
Vance realized the game was up. His polite facade cracked, replaced by a cold, feral grin. He lunged backward, drawing a suppressed Glock from his shoulder holster with terrifying speed, aiming directly at Ellie's chest. "If I can't have the empire, nobody gets the heirs!"
