Chapter 8 - the syringe
"Secure the perimeter!" Carmine barked into his lapel radio, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "I want every gate locked! Nobody leaves this estate alive!"
Outside, searchlights flared across the grounds, cutting through the sheets of rain. Guards shouted in the distance, but the sound was already fading toward the southern tree line.
Inside the bedroom, the masked intruder lay twitching on the wet hardwood floor, his eyes rolling back as the chemical from his own syringe seized his central nervous system.
Carmine marched over, ripped the ski mask off the man’s face, and cursed under his breath.
"Who is he?" Fay asked, breathing heavily as she lowered the brass pen holder.
"Vance’s private clinic driver," Carmine growled, checking the man’s pulse. "Fast-acting neurotoxin. The bastard tried to stop Dominic's heart."
Dominic lay against the base of the overturned desk, his white shirt torn open, chest heaving like a wounded beast. Rain blew in from the broken terrace, soaking his dark hair and sticking it to his temples.
Fay immediately dropped to her knees beside him.
"Are you hit?" she asked, her hands checking his neck, his arms, scanning for puncture marks.
Dominic caught her wrist. His grip was fierce, but his fingers were shaking with sheer adrenaline. His storm-dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made the breath catch in her throat.
"I'm fine," Dominic rasped, his voice raw. He looked past her to Carmine, who stood over them with his gun still smoking. "Luca was dirty."
"Luca fled over the south terrace," Carmine said, his face carved from dark granite. "I have six men combing the woods. He won't make it to the highway."
Dominic let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "He was in my house for four years, Carmine. Right beside you."
Carmine bowed his head slightly, the shame cutting deep into the veteran enforcer. "I missed it, Dominic. I failed you."
"We'll settle that later," Dominic snapped. He tried to pull himself upright against the desk, but his legs remained completely unresponsive, dragging heavily across the soaked rug. The humiliation flared across his face again, sharp and bitter.
Fay didn't ask for permission. She moved under his arm, slung his heavy shoulder over her back, and braced her feet against the floor.
"Lean on me," she said quietly.
Dominic stared at her profile, his jaw tight. For a second, his pride fought her. Then, realizing he had no choice, he shifted his weight onto her shoulder. Together, with Carmine lifting his other side, they hoisted Dominic back into his upright wheelchair.
Mrs. Gable appeared in the doorway, clutching a woolen blanket, her face pale as parchment.
"Merciful heavens," the housekeeper breathed, staring at the shattered glass and the unconscious driver on the floor. "Mr. Corso, I'll prepare the guest suite on the west wing immediately."
"Bring clean clothes," Dominic ordered without looking at her. "And get Dr. Vance’s private records from the basement infirmary before the police or anyone else gets curious."
"Already taken care of," Carmine interjected. He reached into his coat and slapped the yellow bank slip down on the desk in front of Dominic.
Dominic looked at the yellow paper. His brow furrowed as his eyes locked onto the name at the bottom.
The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Where did you find this?" Dominic whispered, the fury draining from his face, replaced by a hollow shock.
"The basement safe," Carmine answered grimly. "Signed by Helena Corso. Wired three days ago."
Dominic looked up at Carmine, his dark eyes wide. "My mother is dead, Carmine. We buried her empty casket twelve years ago."
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"Someone is using her account, Dominic," Carmine said. He glanced down at Fay, who was wiping rain from her face with the sleeve of her uniform. "And Arthur Willis's daughter is the one who found it."
Dominic’s head snapped toward Fay. "What did he just call you?"
