Chapter 3 - The Taster's Trap
For the next twenty-four hours, the grand third floor of the Moretti mansion became a gilded pressure cooker.
The news of Dominic’s "rapidly deteriorating health" had leaked out to the rest of the syndicate, exactly as planned. Below us, on the first and second floors, the mansion was buzzing with high-strung lieutenants, anxious family members, and corrupt political allies arriving under the guise of paying their respects.
Inside the locked master suite, however, a silent war was being waged.
Dr. Ferraro’s antitoxin was working slowly, flushing the synthetic poison out of Dominic’s system, though he was still physically exhausted from the blood loss caused by his gunshot wound.
I hadn't slept a single minute. I stayed right by his side, moving between the small adjoining private kitchen and his bedside.
Every bottle of water was opened by my own hands. Every bowl of broth was tested by me first before I let a single drop touch his lips. I washed every dish myself in the private sink, never letting the kitchen staff touch anything meant for the Don.
It was 2:00 AM on the second night.
The mansion below was finally quiet. The heavy rain slammed rhythmically against the tall, arched stained-glass windows of the bedroom.
Dominic lay propped up against his pillows, his color slowly returning. He was watching me intently as I sat in a velvet armchair near the fireplace, meticulously inspecting a fresh sealed bottle of mineral water under the lamp light.
“You’re going to burn a hole through that glass with your eyes, Lucy,” Dominic murmured, his voice deeper and smoother now that the poison’s effects were fading.
I rolled my eyes, not bothering to hide my exhaustion. “Forgive me for being thorough, Don Moretti. If you get poisoned on my watch, Raphael will probably bury me in the rose garden.”
A low, quiet chuckle escaped Dominic’s chest. It was a incredible, warm sound that completely transformed his harsh, severely handsome face.
“Raphael wouldn't dare touch a hair on your head,” Dominic said softly. “He knows I’d break his neck if he tried.”
I looked over at him, feeling a sudden, unexpected flush of warmth rise to my cheeks. Over the past day and a half, sitting in the quiet room together, the terrifying Mafia Don had slowly peeled back his formidable layers. He was brilliant, fiercely strategic, deeply loyal to those he cared about, and possessed a dry, wicked sense of humor that caught me off guard every single time.
“You know,” I said, walking over to the bed and handing him the inspected water bottle, “for a terrifying mob boss who controls half the state, you’re surprisingly easy to take care of when you’re not trying to act invincible.”
Dominic took the bottle, his broad fingers purposefully brushing against mine as he took it. “Invincible is a job requirement in my line of work, Lucy. The second people see you bleed... the wolves come out.”
“Well, the wolves are currently downstairs drinking your expensive scotch,” I replied, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. “Lorenzo has been holding meetings in the library all evening. Raphael sent a text an hour ago—Lorenzo has convinced three of your regional captains to back his motion for an emergency succession vote tomorrow morning.”
Dominic took a slow sip of the water, his dark eyes flashing with lethal intelligence. “Let him collect his traitors. It makes it much easier to clean house when they all gather in one room.”
Suddenly, a subtle, soft scraping sound echoed from the private balcony outside the master suite’s heavy French doors.
I froze.
Dominic’s reaction was instantaneous. Despite his healing shoulder, he reached under his pillow with lightning speed, pulling out a sleek, suppressed black handgun, clicking the safety off in a fraction of a second.
He placed a firm, protective hand on my waist, pulling me down behind his broad body on the bed, shielding me completely.
“Stay behind me,” he breathed into my hair, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper.
The iron latch of the French doors slowly clicked open.
A tall figure clad in dark tactical gear, wearing a ski mask, slipped silently into the room, holding a suppressed pistol fitted with a heavy barrel. The assassin didn't glance around; he stepped directly toward the bed, raising his weapon to fire at the figure under the blankets—
THWIP! THWIP!
Two suppressed shots echoed through the quiet room.
Dominic fired twice with terrifying, surgical precision. The first bullet struck the assassin directly in the center of his chest; the second tore through his shoulder, sending the intruder crashing heavily onto the hardwood floor, groaning in agony as his weapon skidded across the rug.
I gasped, clutching the back of Dominic’s linen shirt.
Dominic didn't even flinch. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, standing tall despite his injuries, stepping over to the bleeding assassin on the floor. He pressed the warm barrel of his gun directly against the man’s forehead.
“Raphael,” Dominic spoke into his wrist radio, his voice cold as ice. “We have a live rat in the master suite. Bring Lorenzo up here right now.”
Dominic reached down with his free hand and violently ripped the ski mask off the wounded assassin’s face.
I peeked over Dominic’s broad shoulder and let out a sharp gasp.
It wasn't a stranger. It wasn't a rival syndicate hitman.
It was Marco—the mansion’s head chef, the man who had worked in the Moretti kitchen for over ten years.
Marco coughed up blood, staring up at Dominic with wide, terrified eyes. “D-Dominic... please...!”
“You put the poison in my water, Marco,” Dominic said, his tone entirely devoid of emotion. “Who paid you?”
Marco wept, clutching his bleeding chest. “He... he promised me two million dollars! He said you were already dying from the gunshot! He said he’d kill my daughter if I didn't finish you off!”
“Who?” Dominic demanded, pressing the barrel harder into the chef’s skin.
Before Marco could answer, the bedroom doors were thrown open. Raphael stormed into the room, shoving a pale, trembling Lorenzo ahead of him at gunpoint.
Lorenzo took one look at the bleeding chef on the floor, then at Dominic standing tall and lethal, and his entire face drained of color. His knees gave out completely, and he collapsed onto his carpet in pure, unadulterated terror.
“C-cousin...!” Lorenzo shrieked, his hands shaking frantically in the air. “I... I didn't know! I swear to God I didn't know Marco was coming up here!”
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Dominic slowly turned his head toward his cousin, his dark eyes burning with an ancient, murderous fury.
“You tried to poison me in my own bed, Lorenzo,” Dominic said softly, stepping toward his cousin like an avenging demon. “And you sent an assassin to a room where an innocent woman was sleeping.”
