Chapter 4 - The Friend’s Fatal Mistake
The silence in the room lasted for what felt like an eternity. Alessandro lowered the phone onto the desk.
For two years, Alessandro had mourned the loss of his physical strength, believing his body had betrayed him. But learning that his paralysis and failing health were the result of a calculated, systematic assassination by his childhood friend lit a furnace of pure, unadulterated fury behind his eyes.
"Victor," Alessandro whispered, the name sounding like a death sentence. "Thirty years. We grew up on the same block in South Chicago. I made him rich. I gave him everything."
"He’s planning something with the syndicate board meeting in three weeks," I added nervously. "I heard him mention it to you earlier."
"He doesn't want to wait three weeks," Alessandro said, his mind rapidly connecting the pieces. "He wanted me dead before the quarterly audit next Tuesday. Once I'm gone, as executor of my estate, Victor gains total control of the Moretti shipping hubs and the offshore accounts."
He looked at me, his gaze softening just a fraction. "You risked your life to get this sample, Maya. If Victor had caught you, he would have killed you without hesitation."
"I couldn't let him do it," I said simply. "You... you were kind to my daughter when everyone else treated us like trash. You deserve to live."
Alessandro stared at me, a profound shift occurring in his expression. For two years, he had been surrounded by bodyguards, lawyers, and associates who smelled of ambition and deceit. Yet the only person who had saved his life was an underpaid housekeeper armed with a plastic sample bottle and a mother’s instinct.
"Maya," Alessandro said, extending his hand. "Come here."
I stepped closer, and he took my hand in his. His palm was warm, his grip surprisingly firm despite the poison in his system.
"You and Emma are under my personal protection now," he said, every word weighted with an iron vow. "Nothing will ever touch either of you again. But now, we must play Victor’s game just long enough to trap him."
Over the next four days, a silent war was waged inside the Moretti estate.
Under the guidance of a trusted, private physician brought in through a secure underground network, Alessandro began receiving daily intravenous chelation therapy to flush the Thallium from his system. To keep up appearances, he acted weaker every day, slumping further in his wheelchair whenever Victor came to visit, slurring his speech and playing the part of a dying king.
Victor took the bait completely.
On Friday afternoon, Victor entered the office carrying a thick stack of legal documents. He looked triumphant, unable to fully mask the predatory gleam in his eyes as he watched Alessandro struggle to hold a pen.
"Alessandro, my friend," Victor said soothingly, laying the papers on the desk. "The board needs your signature on the emergency transfer protocol. Given your deteriorating health, this will allow me to manage the estate transitions seamlessly so you don't have to suffer through the stress."
Alessandro leaned back in his chair, his breathing heavy, playing his role to perfection. "Is it... is it time, Victor?"
"I'm afraid so, brother," Victor said smoothly, handing him a pen. "Sign right at the bottom. I'll handle everything else."
Alessandro took the pen. He looked down at the document—a total surrender of all Moretti assets to a shell company controlled by Victor Vance.
Then, Alessandro set the pen down.
He looked up at Victor. His eyes were no longer dull or clouded. They were bright, sharp, and burning with terrifying clarity.
"Tell me, Victor," Alessandro said, his voice as smooth as velvet and as heavy as lead. "How much did Nikolai Volkov pay you to orchestrate the ambush on the I-90 two years ago?"
Victor froze. The smile on his face vanished instantly. "What... what are you talking about, Alessandro? You're delirious. The medicine—"
"The medicine?" Alessandro interrupted, sitting up straight in his wheelchair, his posture suddenly rigid and powerful. "You mean the Thallium sulfate you’ve been dropping into my mineral water every afternoon?"
Victor’s face drained of every drop of color. He backed away a step, his hands trembling. "Alessandro... you're confused. You're sick—"
"I was sick," Alessandro corrected him coldly. "Until four days ago."
May you like
Alessandro reached into his drawer and pulled out the printed toxicological report, tossing it onto the desk alongside a thumb drive containing crystal-clear 4K video footage captured by a hidden micro-camera installed in the lounge—footage showing Victor dropping the poison into the decanter three days prior.
"You made one fatal mistake, Victor," Alessandro said, his voice echoing through the massive room like a death knell. "You assumed that because I lost the use of my legs, I lost my mind. And you forgot that in this house, loyalty still exists."
