Chapter 6 - the ghost of turnpike 9
The private doctor arrived twenty minutes later.
Inside Lorenzo’s massive study, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and dark leather furnishings, Dr. Vance finished running the rapid chemical strip on the formula sample.
The strip turned a violent, unnatural purple.
"Phenobarbital," Dr. Vance declared, his hands shaking slightly as he looked up at Lorenzo. "Low, chronic doses. It suppresses the infant's suckling reflex and induces extreme lethargy. Given another week at this concentration, the child’s organs would have systematically shut down. Any autopsy would have concluded failure to thrive due to congenital digestive trauma."
Lorenzo didn't speak, but the glass tumbler of scotch in his right hand shattered under the brute pressure of his grip. Amber liquid and broken crystal dripped onto the mahogany desk.
Amelia gasped, immediately checking to ensure no shards reached the baby in her arms. "Mr. Rossi, your hand—"
"I don't feel it," Lorenzo said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He wiped the blood on a dark linen cloth without breaking eye contact with the doctor. "Can he recover?"
"His vitals are already stabilizing, thanks to the natural milk," Dr. Vance said, glancing respectfully at Amelia. "Whatever antibodies and hydration she provided reversed the acute dehydration. She saved his life tonight, Lorenzo."
Lorenzo turned his dark, intense gaze on Amelia. For a man who ruled Boston's underworld with merciless efficiency, the raw gratitude burning in his eyes was almost overwhelming.
"From this moment on," Lorenzo declared, "Amelia Hart is Leo’s sole caregiver. She moves into the master suite adjacent to my quarters. She eats what I eat. She goes nowhere without an escort."
Marco stepped forward from the doorway, his expression grim. "Lorenzo, we need to talk about the Moretti connection. Privately."
Amelia stood up, sensing the shift in the room. "I will take Leo upstairs."
"Wait," Lorenzo said. He walked over to a secure wall safe behind an oil painting, spun the dial, and pulled out a velvet-lined jewelry box. From it, he retrieved a delicate silver pendant shaped like an angel wing.
He hung it gently around Leo’s neck.
Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. The silver wing had an inscription on the back, briefly catching the lamp light: *For Grace.*
Amelia stepped back, her voice shaking. "Where did you get that?"
Lorenzo paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It belonged to Clara. She bought it in an antique shop in Salem two days before she was killed. Why?"
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Amelia looked down at the pendant. Her late baby daughter's name was Grace. And the exact matching wing was currently sitting in the small velvet pouch hidden inside Amelia’s cheap suitcase downstairs.
***
