Chapter 2 - THE KITCHEN WARNING
By noon, the autumn rain had completely cleared, leaving the sprawling estate’s manicured gardens glistening under a pale, deceptive sun. Lily was sitting comfortably at the low wooden table tucked away in the corner of the staff kitchen, swinging her oversized shoes and meticulously frosting a stolen sugar cookie with an absurd amount of pink sprinkles.
I pulled out a chair and sat down directly across from her, gently wiping a streak of white flour from her chubby cheek. "Did Mr. Bellini catch you wandering around the pantry again?" I asked in a low, teasing whisper.
Lily shook her head vigorously, her blonde curls bouncing around her shoulders. "No. The tall man with the silver hair was talking to the medicine box."
My hands froze instantly, the dish towel dropping from my fingers onto the table. "The medicine box, sweetie? What on earth do you mean?"
"In the hallway upstairs," Lily babbled innocently, taking a massive bite out of her frosted cookie. "He had the brown bottle. He put white powder inside it from a little packet. Like sugar, but not sweet at all. It smelled funny and scary."
The kitchen seemed to tilt violently on its axis. My breath caught in my throat, cutting off any oxygen. Marco Bellini—the loyal, dependable right hand, the so-called scaffolding of the entire Romano empire—was in charge of Alessandro's health. And the brown bottle he kept locked away was identical to the medication Alessandro took twice a day for his chronic nerve damage.
"Lily," I whispered, leaning forward, my voice dropping into a serious, urgent tone that made her stop chewing immediately. "Did Mr. Bellini see you standing there?"
"No. I was hiding behind the tall velvet curtains," she mumbled around her food. "He looked very angry. He was whispering to himself. He said, 'Just a few more weeks and he won't wake up at all.'"
May you like
A suffocating wave of terror gripped my chest. Marco wasn't helping Alessandro recover from his injuries; he was slowly, methodically poisoning him to death. The paralysis, the chronic exhaustion, the severe brain fog that Alessandro constantly blamed on his spinal trauma—none of it came from the bomb. It came from the bottle.
I grabbed my phone from my apron pocket, my fingers shaking so violently I nearly dropped it onto the tile floor. I couldn't trust the estate guards, because half of them reported directly to Marco. I couldn't run to local authorities, because Marco practically owned the police district. There was only one person left in this fortress who had the raw power, the deep motive, and the absolute ruthlessness to stop what was coming.
