Chapter 6 - The Setup
At 5:30 PM, the storm outside the North Shore mansion reached its peak. Gale-force winds whipped rain against the massive glass windows, rattling the frames like frantic hands tapping to get in.
Inside Victor’s master suite, the scene was set.
Victor sat in his bed, his chest bare, fitted with real-time cardiac monitoring pads that Claire had brought from her car. The monitor was set to a secondary speaker that emitted a sharp, erratic beep... beep... BEEP-BEEP-BEEP—simulating an acute ventricular arrhythmia.
Claire sat beside him, holding a syringe filled with a harmless saline solution, ready to act if anyone walked in unexpectedly.
Downstairs, Dominic had conveniently scheduled an "urgent financial briefing" in his main study, drawing Raymond DeLuca, Sophia, and the senior captains into a closed-door meeting to discuss international shipping routes.
On the table in Victor’s room sat the plastic pill organizer, visibly containing the altered blue pills.
At 5:45 PM, Claire pressed a panic button disguised as a nightstand call light.
A loud, piercing alarm echoed down the second-floor corridor.
Over the house intercom system, Claire’s voice played out, perfectly laced with panicked urgency: “Emergency! Code Blue in the Master Suite! Dr. Mercer, get up here! Victor’s pulse is failing!”
In the study downstairs, Dominic instantly stood up, acting horrified. “Dad?!” he yelled, rushing out of the room, followed immediately by Sophia and the guards.
Raymond DeLuca stood up more slowly, a look of grim, dark triumph flashing across his aging features. He waited until the hallway cleared, pulled a small leather gloves box from his coat pocket, and stepped out into the corridor, heading up the back servants' staircase toward Victor’s room.
Above, in the master suite, Claire hid inside the walk-in closet behind a slatted wooden door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. In her hand, she held her smartphone, logged directly into the mansion’s high-definition security feed.
Victor lay on the bed, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow, playing the role of a dying man with remarkable skill.
The bedroom door creaked open.
Footsteps moved softly across the thick Oriental rug.
Through the slats of the closet door, Claire saw Raymond DeLuca enter the room. He wasn't rushing to help. He wasn't calling for a doctor.
Raymond stood over Victor’s bed for three seconds, staring down at the old man with a look of cold, bitter contempt.
“Thirty years, Victor,” Raymond whispered to the unconscious man. “Thirty years sitting in your shadow while your arrogant son treated me like a glorified accountant. It ends tonight.”
Raymond reached into his pocket and pulled out an identical plastic pill organizer—this one filled with real, harmless Amlodipine pills to replace the poisoned ones before an autopsy could be performed.
He reached for the bedside table, swapping the boxes.
CLICK.
The sound came from the corner of the room.
Raymond froze.
The heavy walk-in closet door swung open, and Claire stepped out, holding her phone high, its video recording light glowing a steady, bright red.
“Got you, Raymond,” Claire said, her voice ringing out clear and steady.
Raymond turned slowly, his face contorting into an expression of pure, animalistic rage. He looked at Claire, then at the recording phone, then at Victor—who opened his eyes, sat up straight in bed, and looked at his former friend with cold, deadly disgust.
“You bastard,” Victor growled, his voice deep and strong.
Raymond realized in a fraction of a second that he had been walked into a trap. Panic exploded in his eyes.
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He didn't run for the door. He reached inside his tailored jacket, pulling out a snub-nosed .38 revolver, pointing it straight at Claire’s chest.
“Shut that phone off, nurse,” Raymond hissed, his hand trembling on the trigger, “or you won't live to see the end of this shift.”
