The Mafia Boss’s Son Screamed In Pain—Then The Nurse Cut Open His Pillow And Found Poisoned Needles Inside

Eighty minutes later, the roar of a high-performance engine cut through the sound of the falling rain outside the mansion.

Fiona sat by the bed, her eyes fixed on the door. She had not slept a second. Arthur had finally drifted into a genuine, un-medicated sleep, his hand still tightly clutching Fiona’s thumb.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the marble hallway. They weren't the cautious, quiet steps of the house staff or the disciplined tread of Marco's guards. These steps were heavy, fast, and radiating an overwhelming pressure that seemed to shake the very walls of the estate.

The lock clicked. The door flew open, slamming against the interior wall with a crack like thunder.

Dominic Costello stood in the threshold.

His black trench coat was soaked with rain, clinging to his broad shoulders. His silk tie was loosened, his collar unbuttoned, and his dark hair was windblown and damp. But his eyes—those icy, terrifying blue eyes—were locked onto the bed.

He didn't look at Marco, who stood behind him. He didn't look at the luxurious furniture. He walked straight past Fiona, dropped to one knee beside the bed, and placed his massive, calloused hand over Arthur's tiny chest, feeling the rise and fall of his son's breathing.

For a long moment, the ruthless mob boss closed his eyes. A single, deep breath escaped his lungs—a sound of immense, agonizing relief.

"Arthur," Dominic whispered, his voice trembling slightly.

He gently brushed a lock of hair off the boy's forehead, his thumb lightly tracing the pale skin of his son's cheek. Then, slowly, Dominic stood up. The vulnerability vanished in an instant, replaced by a cold, murderous aura that made the temperature in the room drop drastically.

He turned his gaze down toward the floor, where the shredded pillow and the scattered, poison-coated needles lay exposed under the light.

"Show me," Dominic said, his voice flat and deadly.

Fiona stood up, keeping her voice calm and professional. "They were woven into a flexible nylon mesh inside the foam layer. When Arthur lay down, his head wasn't heavy enough to push through immediately. But as he slept, the memory foam compressed under his weight, slowly forcing the needles into his skin. The sedative Dr. Reed prescribed ensured he wouldn't wake up enough to pull away. It was calculated to look like a progressive neurological disease."

Dominic bent down, picking up one of the coated needles between two fingers. He brought it close to his face, smelling the faint bitter residue.

"Curare derivative mixed with arsenic compound," Dominic said softly. "Slow organ failure. Mimics childhood degenerative encephalopathy."

Fiona stared at him in surprise. "You know what this is?"

Dominic looked at her, his icy eyes meeting hers. "I grew up in a world where people kill each other with subtlety when they are too cowardly to use a gun, Miss Jenkins. I know poisons."

He tossed the needle back onto the carpet and pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his fingers carefully. He stepped closer to Fiona, stopping just inches away. He was tall—easily six-foot-three—and his sheer presence was suffocating, yet Fiona did not back down. She met his gaze squarely.

"You saved my son's life tonight," Dominic said, his tone low and sincere. "If you had given him that extra dose Victoria demanded, he would not have woken up."

"I am a nurse, Mr. Costello," Fiona replied firmly. "My duty is to my patient. Not to your wife, and not to your reputation."

A ghost of a dark smile touched Dominic's lips. "Most people in Chicago tremble when my wife speaks. Most doctors bow to Dr. Reed because of his credentials. You stood your ground."

"Because I knew something was wrong," she said. "Now we need to get Arthur out of this house. This mansion isn't safe. If the poison is custom-made, his internal organs could fail within days if we don't administer an antidote."

"He leaves tonight," Dominic agreed. "I have a private medical facility in Evanston. Fully staffed by people who answer directly to me, not to the medical boards, not to Reed."

Suddenly, a sharp voice rang out from the hallway.

"Dominic! What is the meaning of this madness?"

Victoria Costello pushed past the guards standing outside the door. She was dressed in a pristine white silk robe, her golden hair swept back, though her pale face betrayed a hint of frantic desperation. Behind her stood Dr. Harrison Reed, holding his black leather medical bag, his round face slick with sweat.

"Dominic, darling," Victoria said, her voice dripping with artificial worry as she stroocation towards her husband. "Marco put guards outside my room! They treated me like a prisoner! And why did you call Dr. Reed back at three in the morning?"

Dominic didn't move. He didn't turn to embrace her. He simply stood beside Fiona, his hands resting casually in his coat pockets.

"Dr. Reed," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Step inside. Take a look at the floor."

Dr. Reed blinked, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He took two hesitant steps into the room, his eyes falling upon the shredded pillow and the gleaming needles. His face instantly drained of all color, turning a sickly shade of greenish-white.

"What... what is that?" Reed stammered, his voice squeaking. "Is that... a pillow?"

"It's Arthur's pillow," Dominic said, taking a step toward the doctor. "The one you specifically recommended three weeks ago. The orthopedic pillow you brought from your own private clinic."

"I... I prescribed it to support his neck alignment!" Reed gasped, stumbling backward until his back hit the doorframe. "I had no idea! Someone must have tampered with it! Victoria, tell him! I gave the pillow to you sealed in the box!"

Victoria's head snapped toward Reed, her eyes wide with shock and rage. "You lying worm! Are you implying I put needles in my stepson's pillow?"

"You brought it into his room!" Reed yelled, his composure completely shattering. "You said you wanted him cured! You said—"

"Silence!"

Dominic’s voice didn't rise to a shout, but the command was so violent, so absolute, that both Victoria and Dr. Reed froze instantly.

Dominic looked at Marco, who was standing in the corridor.

"Take Dr. Reed to the basement," Dominic ordered coldly. "Do not kill him yet. I want to know who manufactured the compound on those needles."

"Dominic, no! Please!" Reed screamed as two heavy-set guards grabbed him by the arms, dragging him backward down the marble corridor, his polished shoes sliding uselessly against the stone.

Dominic then turned his slow, deliberate gaze onto his wife.

Victoria backed up a step, her hand covering her mouth. "Dominic... you can't believe him. I love Arthur. I've taken care of him since your late wife passed away. I would never—"

"You hate him," Dominic interrupted quietly. "You hate him because he bears my blood and my name, while you remain a second wife who has brought no heir into this family. You hate him because if anything happens to me, my entire estate is held in trust for Arthur until he turns twenty-five, leaving you with a mere annuity."

Victoria’s face hardened. The weak, frightened act melted away in an instant, revealing the cold, calculating woman beneath.

"If anything happens to you, Dominic?" she sneered, dropping all pretense of affection. "You live in a world of bullet holes and blood. You could die tomorrow! And I am expected to sit here and play sweet stepmother to a child who looks at me like I'm a stranger?"

"You are a stranger," Dominic said softly. "Marco. Lock her in her quarters. If she tries to make a phone call, break her fingers."

"Dominic!" Victoria shrieked as Marco firmly grabbed her wrist. "You can't do this to me! My father is Senator Vance! He will tear your business to pieces!"

"Your father owes me forty million dollars, Victoria," Dominic said coldly, turning his back on her. "He won't raise a finger to save you."

Victoria was dragged away, her screaming cries echoing down the cavernous halls until Marco shut the thick double doors at the end of the corridor.