Chapter 4 - The Vultures Circle
While the east wing grew strangely quiet, the rest of Grayhaven House was a pressure cooker on the verge of exploding.
Viktor Rossi, Damian’s primary underboss and the man responsible for managing the shipping terminals along the Inner Harbor, paced the length of the walnut-paneled library. His tailored Italian suit strained against his thick shoulders, and his fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against the silver head of his cane.
“He’s not dying fast enough,” Viktor muttered, turning to face Dr. Alistair Vance—no relation to the butler, but a slick, high-priced physician who had been on the syndicate’s payroll for a decade. “You swore the organophosphate would shut his kidneys down within three weeks. It’s been nearly two months, Alistair. The old man is still breathing.”
Dr. Vance pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, his expression nervous. “The dosage was calculated precisely to mimic natural organ failure without leaving heavy traces in his bloodwork, Viktor. If he’s lingering, it’s because his baseline constitution is unnaturally stubborn. But he’s bedridden. He can’t walk. He can’t sign off on the port transfers.”
“Stubbornness doesn't pump blood through a poisoned heart,” Viktor snarled, walking over to the fireplace. “And worse... there are rumors coming out of the east wing. Servants are talking. They say he’s keeping a maid and her brat in his rooms.”
“A maid?” Dr. Vance frowned. “What could a maid possibly do for him?”
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“I don't know,” Viktor said darkly, narrowing his eyes. “But power vacuums don't tolerate loose ends. If Damian rallies, heads will roll from here to Annapolis. We need to finish it. Permanently.”
Unknown to Viktor, however, the shadows in Grayhaven House had ears. And sometimes, those ears belonged to people who had nothing to lose.
