Chapter 4 - The Poisoner’s Little Black Book
The silence in the conservatory was suffocating.
"What do we do with the body?"
The radio words hovered in the humid air like poison.
Celeste tried to smile.
A desperate, twitching grimace.
"She's eighty-one, Richard. Her heart was weak. You can't pin that on me."
Richard walked over to her.
He didn't run.
He didn't scream.
The quiet rage rolling off him made the hair on my arms stand up.
He took Celeste by the throat.
Not choking her.
Just pressing two fingers against her carotid artery, feeling her frantic,
guilty pulse.
"Where is the van?" he asked.
His voice was a gravelly whisper.
"Go to hell," she spat.
Richard glanced down at her designer clutch bag on the floor.
He kicked it toward me.
"Naomi. Open it."
My hands were still trembling from the adrenaline.
I scooped up the crocodile leather purse.
Inside was an ivory compact, a lipstick, and a small, leather-bound notebook
with gold initials: S.M.
Salvatore Moretti.
I opened the pages.
Rows of handwritten dates, numbers, and bank routing transfers.
And tucked into the back pocket was a prescription slip stamped with a private
clinic in Newark.
"It's here," I said, my voice shaking.
"Aconite. Monkshood extract."
I looked up at Richard.
"She was micro-dosing his mother for three weeks. That’s why Mrs. Castellano was
dizzy. That’s why she fell down the stairs last month."
Richard’s grip on Celeste tightened until her feet left the flagstones.
Her face turned a mottled purple.
"You pushed my mother down the marble staircase?"
"She... she wouldn't die..." Celeste gasped, clawing at his iron wrist.
"Old bitch... wouldn't let go of the family trust..."
Richard dropped her.
She crashed onto the glass shards, coughing and gasping for air.
Richard picked up the radio from Marcus’s unconscious chest.
He clicked the transmitter.
"Listen to me very carefully, driver."
Static hummed.
"Marcus? Is that you?"
"This is Richard Castellano."
The silence on the other end was deafening.
"If my mother dies in that vehicle, I will hunt down every person carrying your
surname from Brooklyn to Palermo. If she is breathing when I reach you, you
live. Give me your location."
The driver broke immediately.
"Pier 42! Pier 42, warehouse four! The Morettis are waiting with a medic, but
she’s barely breathing, boss! I swear I didn't touch her!"
Richard cut the feed.
He turned to me.
"Naomi. Can you drive?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Because my estate security is compromised. We take my personal car."
Before we could move, the heavy glass doors of the conservatory rattled.
Footsteps.
Heavy, synchronized tactical boots.
Five men in black uniforms with red armbands appeared through the smoke of the
outdoor patio.
Moretti hitmen.
The lead man kicked the door open.
"Celeste! Get out!"
Celeste scrambled across the floor, screaming:
May you like
"Kill him! Kill them both!"
Gunfire erupted.
