Chapter 5 - The Trap is Set
By three o'clock in the morning, the private report arrived from Graham’s trusted lab in Manhattan via an encrypted digital file.
The results were indisputable.
The powder was a concentrated blend of scopolamine and synthetic heavy metals—a compound specifically engineered to mimic the rapid onset of aggressive Alzheimer’s disease while causing intense hallucinations during periods of high stress, such as storms.
In small, daily doses, it broke down the brain's cognitive pathways without leaving obvious traces in standard blood tests unless specifically screened for heavy metal toxicity.
Graham sat in his dark study, staring at the glowing laptop screen. Beside him stood Marcus, his loyal head of security, and Beatrice.
"Mrs. Gable has been on Victor’s payroll for two years," Marcus reported, his face grim. "We tracked her offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands. A monthly transfer of twenty thousand dollars has been cleared every month since your mother’s symptoms began."
Graham didn't yell. He didn't smash anything. His rage had gone beyond emotion, solidifying into an absolute, cold certainty.
"They want to present their independent doctor tomorrow at ten AM," Graham said, his voice flat. "Victor brought Elder Moretti and Elder Romano to witness my mother’s 'incompetence'."
He looked up at Beatrice.
"Can we flush this poison out of her system?"
"She hasn't had the full dose tonight," Beatrice said. "I dumped the tea down the sink after taking the sample. If we give her clean fluids and a heavy dose of saline through an IV, her mind will be clearer by morning. Not completely healed—that will take weeks of detox—but clear enough to speak."
Graham stood up from his desk. He walked around the mahogany furniture until he stood directly in front of Beatrice.
He took her soft, work-calloused hands in his own.
"Tomorrow morning, Victor expects to find a broken old woman screaming at the walls," Graham said, his eyes burning with dark anticipation. "Instead, he is going to walk into a execution."
"What do you need me to do?" Beatrice asked softly.
"I need you to stay by her side," Graham said. "When Victor and the elders enter the West Wing at ten o'clock, you let Mrs. Gable bring the morning tea. Do not stop her. Let her think the plan is working."
"And then?"
"And then," Graham said, leaning down to press a firm, warm kiss onto Beatrice’s forehead, "you watch me destroy every traitor in this house."
The remainder of the night was spent in intense preparation.
Beatrice stayed awake beside Isabella’s bed, administering clean fluids through a discreet IV line that Marcus had smuggled up from the estate's private medical bay.
As the hours ticked by and the synthetic toxins began to drain from Isabella’s system, the old woman’s breathing became deeper, smoother, and more relaxed.
At seven in the morning, as the gray dawn broke over the storm-tossed cliffs of Long Island, Isabella opened her eyes.
There was no wildness in them. No fear. No phantom planes bombing her ceiling.
She looked at Beatrice sitting in the chair beside her.
"Bea," Isabella said, her voice raspy but astonishingly clear.
"I’m here, Mrs. Russo," Beatrice smiled softly, wiping a tear from her cheek.
"I hear music in my head," Isabella murmured, a soft, graceful smile gracing her wrinkled face. "An Irish song. You were singing to me."
"I was," Beatrice admitted.
Isabella reached out, her thin fingers intertwining with Beatrice’s. "My son... he brought you here, didn't he?"
"You found me, Mrs. Russo," Beatrice corrected gently. "In the dark."
Isabella’s eyes narrowed slightly as memories from the past two years began to resurface through the clearing fog. "Gable... the tea... it tasted like copper."
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"We know," Beatrice whispered. "Graham knows everything now. Today, it stops."
Isabella squeezed Beatrice’s hand with surprising strength. "Good. Then let’s give my nephew the welcome he deserves."
