Chapter 9 - The Syringe and the Serpent
The peace, however, was an illusion.
Three days later, I was sitting on the terrace overlooking the misty autumn lake, sipping warm chamomile tea, when the elevator doors chimed with an urgent, harsh tone.
Marco marched into the penthouse, his trench coat damp from the rain, his expression grimmer than usual. He carried a heavy, polished mahogany box wrapped in red silk cord.
Adrian stepped out of his home office, instantly sensing the tension. "What is it?"
Marco glanced at me hesitantly. "Courier left it at the ground security checkpoint. Addressed directly to Miss Claire."
A cold pit formed in my stomach. "To me?"
"Take her inside," Adrian ordered sharply, his posture stiffening into the lethal stance of a predator.
"Adrian, wait—" I started, but Marco was already moving to block my view.
"Open it," Adrian commanded.
Marco produced a tactical blade, slicing through the silk cord, and carefully popped the brass clasp of the box with the tip of his knife.
Inside lay a single silver medical syringe filled with an ominous, murky blue liquid, resting atop a bed of dead black orchids. Beneath it was a handwritten note on expensive parchment.
Adrian picked up the parchment with gloved fingers. His face went dead, his eyes transforming into two obsidian voids.
"What does it say?" I demanded, pushing past Marco’s arm, my maternal instincts screaming in panic.
Adrian tried to fold the paper, but I snatched it from his grip.
*A bastard child cannot inherit the throne of Chicago,* the elegant script read. *A single injection will save you the trouble of raising a dead don's orphan, Claire. Give up Moretti’s son, or we will carve him out of you ourselves.*
*— Salvatore Bellandi.*
The paper fluttered from my fingers. All the color drained from my face. My legs buckled, but Adrian caught me before I could hit the floor, his arms locking around me like bands of steel.
"Adrian..." I choked out, clutching his lapels as pure terror gripped my throat. "They know. They know who I am."
"Marco," Adrian spoke, his voice so quiet, so devoid of humanity, that the air in the penthouse seemed to drop ten degrees. "Lock down the building. Double the perimeter. Bring the northern crews into the city."
"Yes, Don Moretti."
Adrian scooped me into his arms, carrying me toward the master bedroom. His jaw was clenched so hard the tendons stood out against his neck.
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"I won't let them touch you," he whispered fiercely against my temple, his heart beating a frantic war rhythm against mine. "The Bellandi family just signed their own death warrant."
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