Chapter 4 - The Poisoner Within
By the end of the second week, the routine had cemented into something surreal.
Every day at noon, Lila and I entered the master suite. While I checked Damian’s vitals, adjusted his medication drip, and changed his dressings, Lila sat on the rug playing with her building blocks or showing Mr. Hoppers the intricate carvings on the antique furniture.
In return, Damian—the ruthless architect of Baltimore's underworld—patiently learned how to sign “hello,” “thank you,” and “rabbit” with his large, calloused hands.
Yet, beneath the fragile peace of the master suite, the rest of Grayhaven House was boiling over with tension.
One evening, after putting Lila to sleep in our small quarters, I walked down to the ground-floor kitchen to fetch a glass of water. The house was dead silent, save for the grandfather clock ticking in the foyer.
As I passed the corridor leading to the private library, low, angry voices drifted out from behind the half-open door.
"He's going soft!" a harsh, gravelly voice hissed—a voice I recognized as Salvatore Maroni, one of Damian’s senior regional lieutenants. "A little deaf brat and some kitchen maid are running the master suite! If the families in Chicago find out Volkov is letting a random nurse dictate his recovery, our syndicate will look weak. The shipping lanes are already slipping!"
"He survived the arsenic, Salvatore," another voice replied—cautious, calculating. It was Viktor Vance. "You don't rush a wounded tiger. Besides, Volkov is already hunting for the rat who poisoned the wine. If you push him now while he's unstable, you'll find yourself at the bottom of the Chesapeake before you can blink."
"I'm the one who arranged the courier from Chicago!" Salvatore slammed his fist against a table, the wood groaning in protest. "If Volkov traces the poison back to my crew, we're all dead men! He needs to have a relapse. A permanent one."
My blood ran cold.
I pressed my back against the stone wall outside the library, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a gasp.
Salvatore poisoned him.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. The mafia boss wasn't just sick; he was hunted from within by the very men who called themselves his brothers in arms.
Suddenly, a heavy hand clamped over my shoulder from behind.
I suppressed a scream as I was spun around and slammed gently against the corridor wall.
It was Damian.
He wasn't wearing his silk robe. He was dressed in a sharp black shirt and trousers, his shoulders rigid, his eyes burning with cold, incandescent fury. He had walked down from the master suite entirely unassisted.
He looked down at me, his finger pressed against his lips once more.
May you like
Quiet.
Slowly, Damian turned his head toward the half-open library door. He didn't look surprised. In fact, a dark, terrible smile touched the corner of his mouth—the smile of a predator who had just heard the rabbit step on a twig.
