Chapter 3 - The Taste of Arsenic
Dario stared at the glass of water as if it were a coiled viper ready to strike.
"What did you just say?" Dario demanded, his voice barely above a harsh whisper as he leaned forward, his muscular frame trembling slightly under the strain.
Giulia climbed uninvited onto the edge of the plush armchair beside the bed, pulling her red scarf tighter around her neck. She pointed a small finger at the rim of the glass and then at the amber bottle of prescription capsules next to it.
"My uncle used to take bad medicine when he was sick," Giulia explained, her voice entirely devoid of childish playfulness, carrying instead the heavy gravity of someone who had grown up too fast. "It made him sleep all day and shake when he woke up. But your water smells wrong. It smells like the white powder my mom uses to clean the stubborn stains off the basement sink—only sharper. Like metal."
Dario’s blood ran cold. The symptoms that had baffled the city's top neurologists—the tremors, the fatigue, the creeping paralysis in his limbs—flashed through his mind in a blinding instant. It wasn’t a degenerative brain disease. It wasn't old age.
It was slow, methodical, calculated poisoning.
And the only person besides himself who had access to this private suite, who poured his fresh water every evening, and who handled his prescription refills under the guise of loyalty was Aldo Manfredi.
Before Dario could process the full, terrifying scope of the betrayal, the connecting door to the adjoining study clicked open.
Elena Marchetti rushed into the bedroom, her face pale with absolute terror, her hands still clutching a dusting cloth. She had heard her daughter's voice through the vents or slipped past the landing—Dario didn't care. She dropped to her knees beside the armchair, grabbing Giulia by the shoulders and pulling her back as if shielding her from a monster.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Castellano! Please, I swear she didn't mean to—she gets lost, she doesn't know any better—please don't hurt her!" Elena sobbed, pressing her forehead against the carpet, trembling violently.
Dario looked down at the kneeling mother and her brave, impossible child. For twenty years, he had lived by a single rule in the underworld: trust no one, and eliminate any liability. A normal mafia boss would have had them both thrown out into the freezing winter night—or worse.
Instead, Dario reached out with his trembling right hand, gripped the crystal glass of water, and hurled it across the room.
Crash!
May you like
The glass shattered against the stone fireplace, sending water and shards scattering across the hearth.
"Get up, Elena," Dario commanded, his voice dropping into a dark, razor-sharp authority that left no room for argument. "Your daughter just saved my life."
