Chapter 2 - Ten Seconds on the Aubusson Rug
The orange tip hit Alejandro’s outer thigh through the heavy wool of his tailored trousers.
One.
Emma pushed down with all the weight inside her small frame, locking her elbows just as her mother had taught her during those scary late-night practices in their tiny basement apartment. The spring-loaded needle discharged with a sharp, metallic click that echoed off the high mahogany panels of the study.
Two. Three. Four.
Alejandro’s body jolted. It was not a conscious movement, but the violent, involuntary reflex of a nervous system receiving a sudden, life-altering surge of epinephrine.
Five. Six. Seven.
Emma kept her hands firmly planted on the plastic casing. Her little knees dug into the wine-soaked fibers of the Aubusson rug, dark red liquid seeping through the knees of her yellow leggings. She didn’t care about the stain. She only knew that if she let go too early, the medicine wouldn't finish its work, and the dark-haired man would go away forever—just like the birds that fell out of the trees in winter.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
She pulled the device straight out, just like her mother had drilled into her memory. The orange needle guard snapped into place over the spent needle.
For three agonized seconds, nothing happened. The room remained suffocatingly still. The fire in the hearth crackled, a log shifting and sending a shower of orange embers against the iron screen.
Then, Alejandro’s throat opened.
He drew in a long, ragged, violent rasp of air—a sound like dry leaves scraping across concrete. His chest heaved upward so hard his waistcoat buttons strained. His fingers, which had been locked in a rigid claw against the floorboards, relaxed slightly, twitching as oxygen flooded back into his starved brain. The terrifying purple hue at the edges of his lips began to recede, replaced by a flush of raw, painful red.
His eyes, unfocused and milky with approaching death, slowly dragged themselves toward the figure kneeling beside him.
He didn't see an assassin. He didn't see one of the rival Lucchese family’s hitters.
He saw a child.
She was tiny, wearing a oversized knitted sweater with a faded yellow daisy on the chest, her blonde hair tied into two chaotic pigtails. In her right hand, she held the empty auto-injector. In her left, she clutched a plush rabbit missing its left button eye.
"You're okay now," Emma whispered, her voice tiny and sweet, completely untouched by the violence of the world Alejandro ruled. "Don't cry. My mommy says the prick hurts, but the air comes back."
Alejandro tried to speak, but his vocal cords were raw, burned by the anaphylactic reaction and the sudden chemical shock. A dry cough racked his chest. He pushed himself up on one elbow, every muscle in his forty-year-old frame trembling with exhaustion.
He looked at the floor. The shattered glass. The dark, treacherous spill of Barolo. The bitter, almond-tinged scent of a synthetic toxin designed specifically to trigger severe respiratory collapse—a poison he was hyper-sensitive to, a secret known only to his inner circle and his private physician.
Someone in his house had tried to kill him.
And a maid’s daughter had just bought him his life with a piece of plastic and a needle.
Footsteps thundered down the grand hallway outside. The heavy oak door burst open, crashing against the wall. Bruno, Alejandro’s chief of security—a broad-shouldered man built like a brick wall with a scar running from his ear to his jawline—rushed into the room, his gun drawn, eyes wildly scanning the space. Behind him were two armed guards and Sarah Carter, the house's lead housekeeper, her face pale with terror.
"Boss!" Bruno roared, sweeping the weapon across the perimeter before zeroing in on Alejandro on the floor. "What happened?!"
Sarah took one look at the scene—the shattered glass, the dark stain, her daughter kneeling in the middle of it all holding a spent EpiPen—and let out a strangled gasp. She threw herself to the floor, sliding on her knees to pull Emma violently against her chest.
"Emma! Oh God, Emma, what did you do?!" Sarah sobbed, her hands frantically checking the little girl's arms, legs, and face for blood. "Mr. Moretti—I'm so sorry! She ran away from the basement, I turned my back for one minute to fold the linens—please, don't hurt her! Please!"
"Sarah..." Alejandro’s voice was a rough, gravelly whisper, barely audible over her panicked crying. He raised one trembling hand, waving off the guards who were cautiously stepping toward the maid and child. "Sarah... stop."
Bruno knelt beside his Don, his hand hovering near Alejandro’s shoulder. "Boss, you're white as a sheet. Was it an attack? Was it a heart attack?"
Alejandro’s dark eyes locked onto Bruno’s. The weakness in his body was temporary, but the cold, terrifying brilliance that made him the head of the Moretti syndicate was already sweeping back into his gaze.
"Poison," Alejandro croaked, pointing a single shaking finger at the shattered wineglass on the rug. "In the Barolo."
Bruno froze, his breath catching in his throat. He turned to look at the glass, then at the empty auto-injector in the small girl's hand.
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"She saved me, Bruno," Alejandro said softly, every word costing him immense effort. He looked at Emma, who was hiding her face in her mother’s apron, peeking out with one wide blue eye. "Your security... failed. The four-year-old... did not."
Bruno’s face turned from shock to pure, terrifying coldness. He stood up slowly, turning to the two guards at the door. "Lock down the estate. Nobody leaves. Not a guard, not a chef, not a driver. Cut the gate controls. If a bird flies over the fence, shoot it down."
