Chapter 2 - THE SNAKE IN THE SUITE
The third floor of the Duca estate was designed like a luxury hospital wing. The floors were lined with sound-deadening cork, the lighting was soft and dim, and expensive medical monitors beeped in rhythmic, subdued tones.
Vivian Chen sat in a plush velvet armchair beside Lucas’s bed. She was thirty-two years old, strikingly beautiful, with long dark hair tied in a neat bun and a demeanor that radiated calm, professional sweetness. She was wearing her pristine white nurse’s scrubs.
On the bed lay six-year-old Lucas Duca. He was small for his age, his skin pale as porcelain, dark circles under his closed eyes. An IV line ran into his tiny arm, delivering saline.
Vivian reached out, gently smoothing the blanket over Lucas’s chest. She picked up a small silver tray sitting on the nightstand. On it sat a tiny glass cup filled with two tablespoons of thick, purple liquid.
“Just a few more weeks, little boy,” Vivian whispered to the sleeping child, a cold, bitter smile touching her lips. “Your father’s heart will break completely when you die. And when he’s broken, he’ll finally sign over the North Harbor shipping shares to the Chen family.”
She picked up the small glass, preparing to set it on the tray for the morning shift.
CLICK.
The sound of a door lock turning made Vivian freeze.
She turned her head. The heavy oak door of the medical suite opened smoothly. Lorenzo Duca walked inside.
He wasn't wearing his coat anymore. Just his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the dark tattoos of the Duca crest stretching across his wrists. He walked slowly, his footsteps making no sound on the carpet.
“Lorenzo!” Vivian instantly straightened up, her smile flipping back to its practiced, warm concern. “What are you doing up so late? You look exhausted. Did the meeting downtown go badly?”
Lorenzo didn't answer. He walked past her, stopping beside Lucas’s bed. He looked down at his sleeping son. He reached out and gently brushed a lock of dark hair off the boy’s forehead. Lucas was breathing thinly, his tiny chest rising and falling irregularly.
“How is he tonight, Vivian?” Lorenzo asked softly.
“His fever spiked a little around ten,” Vivian said softly, stepping closer and placing a comforting hand near Lorenzo’s shoulder. “I gave him a sponge bath. Dr. Stevens said his heart rhythm is still erratic. Oh, Lorenzo... it breaks my heart to see him like this. I pray every night for a miracle.”
Lorenzo slowly turned his head to look at her hand near his shoulder. Vivian felt a sudden chill run down her spine. The look in Lorenzo’s eyes wasn't the tired, grieving expression she had seen for three years.
It was the look of a executioner standing over a trapdoor.
“You pray, Vivian?” Lorenzo asked quietly. “Tell me... who do you pray to when you sew poison into my son’s pillow?”
Vivian’s face drained of all color in a fraction of a second. Her hand froze in midair.
“W-what?” she stammered, stepping back. “Lorenzo, what are you talking about? Are you drunk? You’re exhausted—”
Lorenzo’s left hand shot out like a striking viper.
He grabbed Vivian by the throat, slamming her backward against the wall beside the medical monitors. A tray of stainless-steel surgical instruments crashed to the floor with a deafening rattle.
“AH!” Vivian shrieked, clawing desperately at Lorenzo’s iron fingers.
“Three years,” Lorenzo whispered, leaning in until his face was inches from hers. His voice was a raspy, lethal purr. “Three years I let you sit at my table. Three years I trusted you with my son’s life. Three years you fed him thallium and digitalis.”
Vivian’s eyes bulged with pure terror. “No... no! I didn't! It’s a mistake! Someone is framing me!”
“A three-year-old girl found the packet in his pillow, Vivian,” Lorenzo said, his thumb pressing harder against her carotid artery until her vision began to blur. “She watched you change the pillow while everyone was sleeping. She saw you force the purple drink down his throat when he cried.”
Vivian gasped for air, her heels kicking uselessly against the baseboard. She realized in an instant that the lie was dead. There was no denial left. Lorenzo Duca didn't make accusations unless he had absolute proof.
“Who paid you?” Lorenzo demanded. “Was it your uncle, David Chen? Or was it the Moretti family?”
Vivian choked out a raspy, hysterical laugh despite the grip on her throat. “You... you think... you can save him?” she wheezed. “He’s... he’s already dying, Lorenzo! His organs... are failing! In two weeks... he’ll be dead anyway!”
Lorenzo’s eyes turned into slits of pure green fire.
He didn't break her neck. Death would be an act of mercy, and Lorenzo Duca did not grant mercy to snakes.
He dragged her by the throat across the room and threw her onto the floor near the entrance, where two heavily armed guards were standing with zip-ties ready.
“Take her to the wine cellar,” Lorenzo commanded the guards. “Tie her to the steel pillar. Nobody touches her until Dr. Quinn confirms Lucas is out of danger.”
“Yes, boss!” the guards grunted, pulling Vivian to her feet as she wept and screamed for mercy.
The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off her screams.
Lorenzo stood alone in the quiet room. He took a deep, trembling breath, smoothing his crumpled shirt. Then he walked over to Lucas’s bed, pulled up a chair, and took his son’s tiny, ice-cold hand in his own large palm.
The door opened softly behind him. Dr. Mara Quinn walked in, carrying a specialized IV bag filled with a dark blue liquid solution.
“Prussian blue binder,” Mara said quietly, setting up the line. “It will take seventy-two hours to flush the thallium from his system. It’s going to be a painful process, Lorenzo. He’ll have cramps, nausea, and high fevers as his body purges the toxin.”
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Lorenzo looked at his son’s pale face and squeezed his tiny fingers.
“I don't care how painful it is,” Lorenzo said, tears finally brimming in his eyes. “My son is going to live.”
