Chapter 5 - The Trap is Sprung
Thursday morning arrived with a howling blizzard that blanketed the estate in eighteen inches of powdery white snow. The wind screamed through the surrounding pine trees, rattling the heavy stained-glass windows of the third-floor nursery.
Inside, the room had been returned to its precise, terrible routine.
The monitors hummed and hissed. Gabriel, Thomas, Lily, and Chloe lay in their neat row, their eyes closed, their bodieslimp, performing the deadly game of fake paralysis they had mastered over three horrific years.
Standing near the window, out of view from the door, was Roman. He wore no jacket, only a dark vest over a rolled-up white shirt. His eyes were cold, dead, and focused on the driveway below.
Beside him stood Beatrice. She was dressed in her standard grey cleaning uniform, holding her trusty mop and bucket. But beneath the damp towels in her cart lay a heavy, twelve-inch cast-iron skillet—a tool she had retrieved from the industrial kitchen an hour prior.
"He's here," Roman said quietly.
A sleek black Mercedes SUV pulled up to the front steps. Dr. Aris stepped out, wearing his immaculate camel-hair coat, carrying his leather medical bag. He adjusted his scarf, completely unaware that the sixteen armed men stationed along the perimeter fence were not guarding him, but blocking his escape.
Two minutes later, the nursery door swung open.
Dr. Aris walked in, bringing with him the chill of the winter storm and the faint scent of his expensive cologne. He smiled—a gentle, professional, sympathetic smile that had fooled Roman Castellano for fifteen years.
"Good morning, Roman," Aris said softly, taking off his gloves. "Terrible weather outside. How are our little patients doing today?"
Roman did not turn around from the window. "They are quiet, Aris. Very quiet."
Aris set his leather bag on the stainless-steel table. He reached inside, pulling out four fresh vials of clear liquid and four syringes. "As I warned you on Monday, the neural decay is entering its terminal phase. I’m going to administer a higher concentration of the palliative compound today. It will... ease the transition."
"Ease the transition," Roman repeated smoothly. He finally turned around. "Is that what you call it, doctor?"
Aris paused, a syringe halfway to a vial. He looked up, frowning slightly at the tone in Roman’s voice. "Roman? Are you all right? You look... different."
"I feel different, Aris," Roman said, taking three slow steps forward. "For three years, I felt like a dead man walking through a graveyard. But today... today I feel remarkably clear."
Aris narrowed his eyes. He picked up his bag, his instincts finely honed by years of walking a tightrope between medicine and murder. "If you prefer, I can come back tomorrow—"
"Inject them," Roman interrupted, pointing a finger at the syringes. "Go ahead, doctor. Administer the medicine. But before you do... take a sip of it yourself."
The silence in the room suddenly turned absolute.
Dr. Aris froze. The color drained from his face so fast it looked as though he had been struck by lightning. The syringe slipped from his trembling fingers, shattering against the stainless-steel tray.
"What... what are you talking about?" Aris stammered, stepping back toward the door. "Roman, you're exhausted. You're losing your mind—"
"My sister ran the spectral analysis, Aris," Roman said, his voice dropping into a register so low it vibrated the floorboards beneath their feet. "Thallium. Alpha-Neuroblocker. Panama accounts. Four million dollars from the Moretti family."
Aris’s eyes went wild with absolute panic. He reached frantically into his leather bag for a small, compact pistol he kept hidden in the side pocket.
CLANG!
A sound like a cannon shot echoed through the room.
Before Aris could draw his weapon, Beatrice surged forward from the shadows. Her broad frame moved with astonishing speed. She swung the heavy twelve-inch cast-iron skillet with both hands, landing a brutal, flat-faced blow directly across the side of Dr. Aris’s jaw.
Bones shattered. Teeth flew across the floor.
Dr. Aris let out a ruined, gurgling shriek as he lifted off his feet and slammed hard against the concrete wall, collapsing in a heap of blood, broken teeth, and expensive camel hair.
Beatrice stood over him, breathing heavily through her nose, holding the cast-iron pan high over her head, ready to deliver a second strike. "That's for Thomas's warm rolls, you bastard."
"Wait, Beatrice," Roman commanded softly.
Roman walked over to the groaning doctor. He reached down, grabbed Aris by his coat lapels, and dragged his bloody, broken body across the floor, stopping right in front of Gabriel's bed.
"Look at him," Roman growled, forcing Aris’s head up so his one good eye was inches from Gabriel's face. "Look at my son!"
Gabriel opened his eyes.
For three years, the little boy had suffered in silence under this man’s needles. Now, Gabriel looked straight into Dr. Aris's terrified, blood-soaked face. Slowly, deliberately, Gabriel raised his right hand, curled his fingers into a tight little fist, and punched Dr. Aris right on his broken nose.
It wasn't a strong punch—the boy was weak, his muscles wasted from three years of poison—but the intent was undeniable.
Dr. Aris wept, choking on his own blood. "Please... Roman... please... Mateo made me do it... Moretti threatened my family..."
"Moretti isn't here to save you, doctor," Roman said coldly.
Roman pulled one of the remaining syringes filled with concentrated Thallium from the tray. He knelt beside Dr. Aris, pinning his arm to the floor with his heavy boot.
"No... NO! NOT THAT! PLEASE!" Aris screamed, thrashing wildly. "YOU KNOW WHAT IT DOES! IT'S TORMENT! IT'S HELL!"
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"You knew it was hell," Roman whispered, sliding the needle directly into the main vein of Aris’s neck. "And yet you gave it to seven-year-old children."
Roman depressed the plunger, emptying the clear liquid into the doctor’s bloodstream.
