Chapter 5 - SILENT SHIFT
Victor stepped back into the grand hallway, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him. The air in the mansion felt thick, heavy with the stench of betrayal.
He didn't head toward the courtyard. He moved with practiced, silent strides toward the east wing—Meline’s private suite.
He didn't draw his gun yet. He didn't need to. In this house, Victor Romano was still king, even if traitors walked his halls.
He pushed open the door to Meline’s sitting room without knocking.
Meline Hart was sitting at her ivory vanity mirror, brushing her long, honey-blonde hair. She was wearing a silk robe, looking every bit the pristine politician’s daughter. When she saw Victor in the mirror, she turned around with a soft, practiced smile.
"Victor, darling," she said, setting her silver brush down. "Is everything alright? Dante said there was a security sweep outside."
Victor walked into the room, his dark eyes locked on hers. He didn't stop until he was standing directly over her.
"Where did you get it, Meline?" he asked softly.
Meline’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her blue eyes darting toward the nightstand before returning to his. "Get what, sweetheart? What are you talking about?"
Victor reached out, his thick fingers opening, and grabbed her by her silk collar, pulling her upward until she was forced onto her tiptoes.
"The organophosphate," Victor whispered into her ear. "The poison you put in my son’s food twenty minutes ago."
Meline gasped, her face going pale, her hands clawing at his grip. "Victor! You're hurting me! I don't know what you're—"
"I have cameras in his room, Meline," Victor interrupted, his voice void of emotion. "I watched you bring the tray. I watched Norah test the purée. I watched it turn black."
The lie vanished from Meline’s face, replaced instantly by a cold, calculating sneer that revealed the true viper beneath the silk.
"You fool," she spat, no longer trying to play the innocent victim. "You think this was about your pathetic little brat?"
"Tell me," Victor commanded, his grip tightening.
"My father needed your union votes for the Senate election," Meline hissed, her eyes filled with venom. "And Dante wanted your territory. You were too busy mourning your dead wife and staring at a crippled kid to see what was happening right under your nose! Dante has been selling off your docks to the New York families for six months!"
"And Leo?" Victor asked, his voice shaking with suppressed fury. "Why poison a seven-year-old boy?"
"Because as long as he was sick, as long as you were broken with grief, you were weak!" Meline laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Dante said if the boy died too fast, you’d go to war and burn Chicago down. But if he slowly faded away... you’d just crumble. You’d sign over the business to Dante and walk away!"
Victor stared at her for two seconds, absorbing the absolute filth of her existence.
"Thank you for the confession," Victor said quietly.
Before Meline could react, Victor slammed her back down into the vanity chair, pulled a set of zip-ties from his coat, and bound her wrists securely to the heavy wrought-iron frame of the chair. He stuffed a silk scarf into her mouth to muffle her screams.
"You're going to sit here," Victor told her, leaning down so his face was inches from hers. "And when I am done with Dante, you and your father will answer to the Commission."
He turned and walked out of the room, locking her inside.
Meanwhile, in the west wing, Norah was moving fast.
She had wrapped Leo in his thickest winter coat and blanket, carefully placing him into his lightweight transport chair. She grabbed her medical kit, the keycard, and the heavy 9mm pistol Victor had given her.
"Ready, buddy?" Norah whispered, leaning down to check Leo’s vital signs.
Leo looked up at her, his eyes clear and focused for the first time in over a year. He gave a small, firm nod.
Norah wheeled him out into the quiet hallway, heading toward the hidden service elevator near the kitchen pantry. She kept her hand inside her apron pocket, fingers wrapped securely around the grip of the pistol.
They reached the service pantry without incident, but as Norah pressed the button for the elevator, a heavy shadow fell across the doorway behind them.
May you like
"Going somewhere, nurse?" a rough voice growled.
Norah turned around slowly. Standing in the pantry doorway was Marcus—Dante’s primary enforcer, a six-foot-four wall of muscle holding a silenced submachine gun.
