Chapter 6 - The Traitor's Trap
By Tuesday afternoon, three days before the birthday gala, the tension inside the Rinaldi estate had reached a boiling point.
Julian was becoming restless. He walked the halls with an arrogant, impatient stride, continuously checking his gold watch and issuing orders to the house staff as if he already wore the Don's ring.
In the second-floor library, Julian stood before Dr. Harrison, who was holding a small leather doctor's bag.
"He seems different, Harrison," Julian said, his eyes narrowed as he stared out the window toward the courtyard. "He isn't complaining about the leg pain anymore. He sits by the window for hours, staring at nothing."
Dr. Harrison wiped his round spectacles with a silk handkerchief. "That is merely the final stage of neurological decline, Julian. The toxin is completely deadening the central spinal tract now. Apathy is expected. He has given up."
"Good," Julian spat, turning around. "Because Volkov’s men are arriving on Friday at eight o'clock. The legal documents are ready. Once Mateo signs the transfer of the shipping lines, I want you to double his dose. Make his heart stop before the weekend is over."
"And the housekeeper's daughter?" Harrison asked casually. "She’s been hanging around his suite entirely too much. She was in the dining room again yesterday."
Julian’s face twisted into an ugly, cruel scowl. "I’ve already taken care of that. I told Elena that her daughter is forbidden from entering the west wing under threat of immediate termination and eviction. If that brat steps near Mateo again, I’ll have my men throw them both out into the snow."
Unbeknownst to both men, Lily was currently standing on a small wooden footstool inside the library's adjoining air-vent pantry, cleaning the brass registers.
She heard every single word.
Her small heart hammered in her chest. She knew what 'poison' meant—she had seen her mother put white powder in the basement to kill the cellar rats.
They were going to kill Mr. Mateo on Friday.
Lily quietly climbed down from her footstool, set her brass polish on the shelf, and slipped through the kitchen service door. She knew she was forbidden from going to the west wing, but she didn't care.
She ran down the long carpeted corridor toward Mateo’s private suite.
As she reached the heavy oak doors, a rough hand suddenly grabbed her by the shoulder of her cardigan, jerking her backward off her feet.
"Where do you think you're going, little girl?"
It was Paul—Julian’s personal bodyguard, a heavy-set man with broken knuckles and a scar across his jaw. He lifted Lily off the floor by her collar, his terrifying face inches from hers.
"Let me go!" Lily cried out, kicking her small feet in the air. "I have to give Mr. Mateo his warm water!"
"Mr. Mateo doesn't want your dirty water," Paul sneered, pulling her toward the back stairwell. "Mr. Julian gave strict orders. You and your mother are getting locked in the garage apartment until the party is over."
"Let her go, Paul."
The voice didn't come from behind the closed door. It came from inside the room—low, deep, and carrying the thunderous weight of an executioner's blade.
Paul froze. He looked up.
The heavy mahogany doors of Mateo’s suite opened slowly.
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Mateo sat in his wheelchair in the doorway, dressed in a dark suit, his eyes burning with a violent, murderous fire that made the giant bodyguard's blood run cold.
"I said," Mateo repeated, his hand gripping the armrest of his chair so hard the leather groaned, "set the child down."
