Chapter 2 - The Whispering Greenhouse
Thursday afternoon arrived beneath a heavy, oppressive blanket of rain that battered the estate’s tall windows with relentless fury.
Matteo had deteriorated even further over the last twenty-four hours.
His skin had taken on the exact color of old parchment, pulled taut and skeletal over his skull. He slipped in and out of consciousness, muttering incoherently.
Nia pushed her stainless-steel utility cart toward the master suite, gripping its plastic handle so tightly her knuckles turned ghostly white.
She had spent the previous forty-eight hours agonizing over what she had smelled. She had gone home to her tiny, cramped apartment after her shift, dug through her late grandmother’s weathered, leather-bound botanical journals stored in the back of her closet, and confirmed her worst, most terrifying suspicion.
Digitalis toxicity.
Foxglove.
It was an old-world poison derived from a deceptively beautiful, bell-shaped purple flower. In small, medically synthesized doses, it was successfully used to treat specific heart conditions. But in raw, unregulated amounts—stealthily and repeatedly steeped into strong, bitter ginger tea—it was a slow, agonizing, and undetectable death sentence.
It caused extreme, unrelenting nausea, erratic bradycardia, and the telltale visual disturbance known scientifically as xanthopsia—a condition in which the victim saw distinct yellow-green halos around all light sources.
The brilliant doctors had been searching for modern synthetic killers. They were looking for classic mafia staples: cyanide, antifreeze, heavy metals, or exotic bacterial agents.
They were not looking for a common garden flower crushed into a comforting herbal tea blend.
Because digitalis cleared from the bloodstream rapidly or bonded tightly to heart tissue, a standard toxicology screen taken hours after ingestion would not necessarily flag it unless the physicians were specifically testing for precise digoxin levels.
Nia stopped outside the heavy oak doors.
Two armed guards stood silently on either side. They barely glanced at her as she pushed her cart into the room.
The suite felt heavy, like a tomb waiting to be sealed.
Enzo sat slumped in an armchair in the corner, staring blankly at the floor with bloodshot eyes. He looked like a man who had not slept a wink in a week.
Matteo lay completely motionless on the bed. The rhythmic hiss of the oxygen concentrator was the only sign that he was still drawing breath.
Carlo was there again.
He sat close to the bed, holding a fresh cup of tea. He looked incredibly sorrowful, the picture of a devoted relative.
“He’s not waking up today,” Carlo murmured softly, resting his manicured hand on Matteo’s motionless arm.
“He’ll wake up,” Enzo growled without looking up. “He’s too stubborn to die in bed. He’ll wake up.”
Nia moved quietly into the far corner and pretended to organize a stack of fresh linens on her cart.
She kept her eyes on Carlo.
He was careful. Patient. Methodical.
He played the grieving, devoted cousin part to absolute perfection.
Every single afternoon, without fail, he brought Matteo his special healing tea to settle his stomach. Every single afternoon, Matteo drank it willingly, desperate for any relief, unknowingly swallowing the exact botanical substance destroying his vital organs piece by piece.
If Matteo dies, who takes over the syndicate? Nia’s mind raced.
Enzo was the muscle, but he was not blood.
Carlo was blood.
Carlo managed the family’s clean real estate money.
If Matteo died, Carlo could easily inherit the throne, keeping Enzo around as a loyal guard dog or quietly disposing of him later.
It was a brilliant, terrifyingly quiet coup executed right under everyone's noses.
Nia picked up a feather duster and moved slowly toward the bedside table.
She needed absolute certainty.
She could not risk her life, or expose herself to syndicate killers, on a mere hunch.
The silver canister that Carlo used to store the loose-leaf tea sat right there on the table.
Carlo suddenly stood up from his chair.
“I’m going to make a quick call to Father Thomas,” Carlo murmured, looking down at Matteo. “It might be time to have him come by and give last rites, just in case.”
Enzo’s head snapped upward, his eyes flashing with raw fury.
“Don’t you dare call a priest into this house, Carlo. The moment you bring a priest through these doors, you’re signaling to the capos that he’s already dead. If you do, I’ll shoot the priest right on the front lawn.”
“Enzo, please be reasonable.” Carlo sighed heavily, playing the martyr. “Look at him. We have to prepare for reality.”
He turned toward the bay windows and pulled out his phone, tapping the screen.
Enzo buried his face in his large hands, defeated.
Nia made her move.
She slipped silently to the bedside table.
The silver tea canister sat right beside the crystal honey pitcher.
Her hands shook violently as she quietly removed the lid.
The scent hit her senses immediately.
Strong ginger.
Mint.
And underneath those ordinary aromas, the dry, dusty, unmistakably bitter scent of crushed foxglove leaves.
Nia peered inside the canister.
Nestled among yellow chunks of dried ginger and green tea leaves were tiny, coarse flakes of dried purple and grayish-green vegetation.
She quickly snapped the lid back into place.
Carlo turned around from the window.
“What are you doing over there?”
The sympathetic, gentle tone had completely vanished from his voice.
Nia froze instantly.
Enzo looked up, his dark eyes fixing menacingly on her.
“I—I was just dusting the table, sir,” Nia stammered, her voice thin and breathy.
Carlo slowly approached the bed.
He looked down at the tea canister.
Then his eyes shifted back to Nia.
His gaze narrowed into cold slits.
For a single fraction of a second, Nia saw the real Carlo behind the mask.
The facade slipped entirely.
There was no grief in his expression. Only cold, calculating, murderous paranoia.
“Dust somewhere else,” he said smoothly as the friendly mask snapped back into place. “And don’t ever touch the boss’s personal things again.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
Nia retreated rapidly to her cart and pushed it out of the room.
The moment she reached the quiet safety of the hallway, her chest heaved violently.
She leaned heavily against the cool plaster wall, gasping for air.
I have confirmation, she told herself.
Carlo was poisoning Matteo Costa directly beneath Enzo’s sharp nose and right under the noses of twelve top-tier doctors.
Nia could easily walk away from this.
It was not her problem.
These were violent, dangerous men. If Matteo died, the criminal underworld was arguably a better place without him. He was a ruthless mob boss who had ruined countless lives.
Why should she risk a syndicate bullet to save his life?
However, as she slowly descended the grand staircase toward the servants’ quarters, that cold thought gnawed relentlessly at her conscience.
She hated criminals.
But she hated treacherous cowards even more.
Carlo was murdering a man who trusted him, exploiting his absolute vulnerability while pretending to care for him. It was insidious. It was cowardly.
And there was also a stark practical consequence: if Matteo died, the entire syndicate would immediately plunge into chaotic civil war. A bloody gang war would erupt across the city streets, and countless innocent people would inevitably be caught in the brutal crossfire.
Then there was the matter of the reward.
Matteo Costa was well known in the underworld for his ruthless, extravagant generosity toward people who proved fiercely, unquestionably loyal to him.
Nia was completely broke, drowning in her late mother’s medical debt, and surviving week to week on instant noodles and pure fear.
She stopped abruptly at the bottom of the grand staircase and looked back up toward the third floor.
May you like
She made her choice.
She was not going to play the ghost today.
