Chapter 8 - The Trap
Dr. Vance walked toward the bed with slow, deliberate steps, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the amber light of the lamp. In his hand, he held a small glass cup filled with a dark, viscous liquid.
Lucas’s mind raced with the frantic energy of a trapped animal. He slipped his left hand beneath the heavy wool blanket, sliding the metal voice recorder deep into his pajama pocket, while his right hand kept a protective grip over Mateo, who was still fast asleep beside him.
"I'm... I'm not thirsty, Dr. Vance," Lucas said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to keep it steady.
Dr. Vance stopped beside the bed, his smile never reaching his eyes. He set the tray down on the nightstand, right over the very spot where the recorder had been hidden only minutes before.
"Now, now, Lucas," the doctor coaxed, his tone dripping with false paternal warmth. "You know you must take your medicine. Your father expects you to follow your regimen to the letter. If you don't drink it, you know how weak you become."
Lucas stared at the glass. For three years, that dark liquid had been his anchor, his daily ritual of survival. Now, looking at it, he felt sick to his stomach. It was poison. Slow, calculated, untraceable poison administered by the man his father trusted above all others.
"I said no," Lucas repeated, his voice hardening with a sudden, fierce spike of adrenaline.
Dr. Vance’s expression shifted subtly. The warm, physician’s mask slipped away for a fraction of a second, revealing the cold, calculating killer beneath. He reached out, his gloved fingers wrapping firmly around Lucas’s frail wrist with surprising strength.
"You don't have a choice, boy," Dr. Vance whispered, lifting the glass closer to Lucas's lips. "Just like your mother didn't have a choice when she stumbled into things that didn't concern her. A tragic car accident on a dark road... such a shame. Families can be so fragile."
Hearing his mother’s murder confirmed so casually by the man standing over him broke something inside Lucas. Fear vanished, replaced by a blazing, incandescent rage.
Just as Dr. Vance forced the glass toward his mouth, Mateo suddenly woke up with a start. The toddler let out a sharp cry, thrashing his legs and kicking the glass cup straight out of the doctor’s hand.
Crash!
The glass shattered against the wooden floorboards, dark liquid splattering across the rug.
Dr. Vance cursed under his breath, his eyes flashing with sudden malice. He raised his hand, his fingers curling into a heavy grip as he lunged toward Lucas to silence him by force.
"You little—"
Before the doctor’s hand could touch Lucas, the heavy oak door of the bedroom was kicked open with a deafening bang that rattled the picture frames on the walls.
"Step away from my son."
The voice was low, flat, and carried the terrifying, absolute finality of a death sentence.
Lorenzo Duca stood in the doorway. Behind him stood Franco and four armed guards, their submachine guns raised and locked directly onto Dr. Vance’s chest. The air in the room instantly turned arctic cold.
Dr. Vance froze, his hand suspended in mid-air. Slowly, meticulously, he turned around to face the mafia boss, desperately attempting to slide his professional mask back into place.
"Lorenzo... my dear friend," Dr. Vance stammered, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. "There has been a misunderstanding. The boy knocked over his medication—"
"Shut your mouth," Lorenzo whispered.
Lorenzo walked into the room. He didn't look at the shattered glass. He looked directly into Dr. Vance’s eyes. Every instinctual predator radar in Lorenzo’s body was screaming, but it wasn't just suspicion anymore—it was certainty.
"You've been treating my son for three years," Lorenzo said, his voice dangerously quiet as he closed the distance between them. "You told me his illness was genetic. You told me his organs were failing. And yet, the moment a two-year-old child enters this room and brings him life, his vitals improve by twenty percent."
"That is a medical anomaly, Lorenzo, children often—"
"You killed my wife," Lorenzo interrupted.
The words hung in the air like falling guillotine blades.
Dr. Vance swallowed hard, his face turning the color of ash. "That is absurd! The police report—"
"The police report was written by men on your payroll," Lorenzo snarled. He reached inside his coat, pulled out a small, heavy object, and tossed it onto the bed beside Lucas.
It was a backup digital copy of the audio file. Lucas had quietly managed to sync the recorder to his bedside tablet using a USB cable while the doctor was speaking.
Lorenzo tapped the screen.
The clear, unmistakable voice of Dr. Marcus Vance filled the silent room, echoing off the stone walls for everyone to hear: “They are designed to do exactly what they need to do, Isabella. A slow, progressive decline... A tragic car accident on a dark road... such a shame.”
The room went dead silent.
Franco and the guards clicked off the safety catches on their weapons simultaneously. The metallic sound was deafening.
Dr. Vance realized the game was over. He lunged frantically toward his leather medical case on the nightstand, his hand reaching inside for a concealed pistol.
He never made it.
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Three deafening shots echoed through the third floor. Dr. Marcus Vance stumbled backward, his eyes wide with shock, before collapsing heavily onto the floorboards in a pool of blood.
The smoke cleared. Lorenzo stood motionless, his gun still raised, smoke curling lazily from the barrel.
