Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Well
The morning of the memorial brought a heavy, gray fog rolling off Lake Michigan.
The Moretti estate was bustling with dozens of men in dark suits, high-ranking syndicate lieutenants, corrupt politicians, and foreign associates arriving to pay their respects to Julianna Moretti—and to size up Dominic in his moment of perceived vulnerability.
I stayed strictly inside the nursery wing, adhering to Mateo's strict feeding and care schedule. The new routine was working miracles. Mateo’s skin was a healthy pink, his belly was soft and pain-free, and he was sleeping soundly between feeds.
At 1:00 p.m., a soft knock sounded at the nursery door.
Marco stepped inside, carrying a covered silver tray.
"Mr. Moretti sent this up for you, Miss Hannah," Marco said respectfully. "Chef prepared roasted chicken and fresh salad. Boss said you haven't eaten since yesterday."
"Thank you, Marco," I said, setting down my medical notebook. "How is the reading going down there?"
Marco grimaced slightly. "Tense. The Moretti family controls three major shipping ports in the city. Now that Julianna is gone, the rival Donati family is trying to claim that the marriage alliance is voided."
Marco set the tray on the side table and stepped back out into the hallway to resume his post.
I sat down at the small table, pulling off the silver dome covering the plate. The food smelled delicious, but as I picked up my fork, my clinical training triggered an uneasy feeling.
Beside the plate was a small glass of fresh apple juice.
I picked up the glass, raising it toward the sunlight streaming through the window. Near the bottom of the glass, a faint, milky swirling pattern was visible—a residue that hadn't fully dissolved.
My heart skipped a beat.
During my nursing training, we had spent an entire module on toxicology and pediatric poisonings. Certain sedatives, when mixed with acidic fruit juice, left that exact crystalline film.
I immediately set the glass down. I pulled a small, disposable medical diagnostic test strip from my emergency kit—a multi-agent strip used to detect heavy chemicals and narcotics—and dipped it into the juice.
Within three seconds, the paper strip turned a deep, alarming shade of violet.
Benzodiazepines. A massive, potentially lethal dose.
If I had consumed that juice, I would have been unconscious within ten minutes. And an unmonitored infant left in a room with an incapacitated caregiver was a tragedy waiting to happen.
My blood turned to ice.
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They weren't trying to kill me—they were trying to make me look like an incompetent, drugged-out nanny who neglected Dominic’s child during the most important family gathering of the year.
I didn't panic. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the platinum panic button Dominic had given me, and pressed it hard.
