Chapter 5 - The Trap in the Conservatory
By 6:00 AM, the blizzard had broken into a blinding, monochromatic dawn. The sun cast a pale, cold glare across the snow-covered glass roof of the estate's grand conservatory.
Eleanor Moretti stood among the blooming white orchids, holding a pristine silver tea service on a mahogany tray. Her black dress was immaculate, her silver hair pinned with absolute perfection.
She walked down the central aisle of the conservatory, her eyes fixed on the small wrought-iron table where Dominic usually sat to watch the sunrise.
Except Dominic was not there.
Instead, sitting at the table, wrapped in a dark wool blanket with an intravenous drip taped discreetly to the back of her hand, was Avery Quinn.
Eleanor stopped ten feet away. Her grip on the silver tray tightened until her knuckles turned white.
“Where is my son?” Eleanor asked, her voice dropping into a dangerous, sub-zero register.
“He’s resting,” Avery said, sipping a cup of black coffee from a porcelain mug. “Dr. Moretti is currently receiving intravenous chelation therapy and atropine drips in a secure location. His heart rate is stabilizing. The organophosphate levels in his blood are finally dropping.”
Eleanor did not flinch. She set the silver tray down onto a marble pedestal with a steady, deliberate hand.
“You are a remarkably foolish young woman,” Eleanor said calmly, stepping closer to the table. “You come into my house, you play detective, and you imagine grand conspiracies. Dominic is a sick man. His father suffered from a weak heart. It is simply our family’s curse.”
“It’s not a curse, Mrs. Moretti,” Avery said, standing up from the table. She pulled a heavy manila folder from beneath her blanket and tossed it onto the glass surface. “It’s a twelve-year premeditated execution.”
Eleanor looked down at the folder. She did not open it.
“Twelve years ago,” Avery continued, stepping toward the matriarch, her gray eyes burning with unyielding fury, “your husband discovered that you were embezzling fifty million dollars from the Moretti maritime expansion funds to buy sovereign real estate in Zurich under a maiden name. He threatened to divorce you and strip you of your title.”
Eleanor’s chin lifted. “My husband died of natural cardiac arrest.”
“He died of a cumulative dose of parathion administered slowly over nine months,” Avery countered, her voice ringing off the glass panes of the conservatory. “Just like the parathion I isolated from the residue in Dominic’s silver midnight cup last night. Tested, verified, and matched to the exact chemical signature found in your private offshore safety deposit box in Boston.”
The conservatory fell into a dead, suffocating silence.
The wind howled against the exterior glass, driving loose snow across the roof.
Eleanor stared at the manila folder. Slowly, the iron mask of untouchable motherhood began to crack. A cold, bitter smile touched the corners of her thin lips.
“And what do you expect to happen now, Miss Quinn?” Eleanor whispered, her voice dripping with venom. “You think you can take this paper to the capos? You think the Moretti family will turn against their matriarch for a dead girl from Columbia and an ailing boss?”
“I don’t need to take it to the capos,” Avery replied softly.
She tapped her chest with two fingers.
“The entire conversation has been transmitted via encrypted satellite uplink to the executive servers of every senior caporegime in New York, Boston, and Chicago. Including the live confession you just gave.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened in sudden, unmitigated horror. She whipped her head toward the conservatory doors.
May you like
Stepping through the glass entryway, flanked by four heavily armed capos with drawn weapons and cold, murderous expressions, was Dominic Moretti.
He was pale, leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane, but his eyes were clear, focused, and utterly devoid of mercy.
