Chapter 1 - The Trap is Sprung
The heavy metallic clank of the deadbolt sliding into place echoed like a gunshot in the silent nursery. For a fraction of a second, my brain refused to process the reality of the sound. I had built this estate to be an impenetrable fortress. Every door, every window, every hallway was equipped with biometric scanners and reinforced steel. No one locked a door in my house unless I gave the order.
My eyes darted from the heavy mahogany door back to the young maid, Harper. She was frozen in terror, her hands trembling as she cradled my son against her exposed breast. Luca was still nursing, his tiny, desperate gulps the only sound piercing the sudden, suffocating tension in the room. He was oblivious to the danger, solely focused on the life-saving nourishment he had been denied for weeks.
"Stay exactly where you are," I commanded, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. I holstered my weapon and moved toward the door with silent, predatory steps.
I grabbed the brass handle and twisted. It didn't budge. I threw my shoulder against the thick wood, but it was like hitting a concrete wall. The nursery had been designed as a panic room to protect my heir from outside threats. Now, it had been turned into a tomb to trap us inside.
"Mr. Bianchi..." Harper breathed, her voice shaking violently. "Who... who locked us in?"
"Someone who is going to die a very painful death tonight," I replied coldly, my mafia instincts instantly overriding my panic as a father. I turned my attention back to the center of the room. The night nurse, a woman named Beatrice whom I had paid a small fortune to monitor my son, was still slumped in the armchair, snoring softly.
Harper clutched Luca closer, using her apron to cover herself modestly as I approached the small table next to the nurse. Resting beside a half-empty glass of gin was a small, unmarked amber vial. I picked it up, holding it to the dim light. There was a faint residue of a clear, odorless liquid inside.
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"She wasn't starving him," Harper whispered, her eyes wide with horrific realization as she looked at the vial. "She was poisoning him. Putting something in his bottles to make him reject the food. Making his organs shut down slowly so it looked natural."
My blood turned to absolute ice. Dr. Thorne’s grim forty-eight-hour warning echoed in my mind. He wasn't diagnosing my son. He was giving his co-conspirators a timeline.
