Chapter 3 - The Blood-Stained Council
Declan rested his back against the solid mahogany footboard of the bed, breathing slowly to let his neural pathways recover.
The drug cocktail had neutralized the active poison, but his nervous system felt as though it had been scrubbed with wire wool.
Nora walked over to the adjoining marble bathroom, returning with a wet linen towel and a bottle of mineral water.
She tossed the towel into his lap and unscrewed the cap of the bottle, handing it to him without a word.
“Drink half of it,” she commanded, watching his throat closely.
“Small sips, or your stomach lining will reject it immediately.”
Declan looked at the plastic bottle, then up at the full-figured woman standing over him like an unimpressed drill instructor.
In his thirty-two years of life, no one had ever spoken to him in an imperative tone without ending up in a concrete foundation.
Yet he obeyed, taking small, measured swallows of the water while the cold linen towel cooled the fever behind his neck.
“How did they dose me?” Declan asked, his voice returning to its normal, resonant baritone.
“The vintage 1982 Barolo served during the fourth family toast,” Nora answered promptly.
“Silvio’s personal sommelier poured it from an antique silver decanter reserved exclusively for the head of the table.”
Declan’s jaw clenched so tightly the muscles knotted beneath his cheekbones.
“Silvio poured that glass himself,” Declan said, his tone dropping below freezing.
“He handed it to me and wished me a long life and healthy sons.”
“It was an organophosphate blend with synthetic monkshood,” Nora said, kneeling down to gather the used needles.
“It leaves no trace in a standard post-mortem unless the coroner specifically runs liquid chromatography on the liver tissue.”
“Which Chicago’s county coroner would never do for an organized crime figure,” Declan concluded coldly.
“Exactly,” Nora said, securing the medical waste inside a concealed pocket of her crinoline.
“They would have written it off as acute hypertensive heart failure brought on by stress and champagne.”
Before Declan could speak again, three deliberate taps sounded against the service entrance behind the walk-in dressing room.
Two slow beats, followed by one rapid double-tap.
Declan’s hand moved instantly toward the small of his back, his fingers seeking a weapon that wasn't there.
“It’s Matteo,” Declan murmured, gesturing toward the hidden door.
“Unlock the sliding bolt, but stand behind the wall.”
Nora did not hide behind the wall; she simply unholstered a small, ceramic-bladed utility knife from her tactical corset.
She pulled the brass deadbolt back with her left hand, keeping the knife concealed along the seam of her forearm.
The door pushed open immediately, revealing a tall, gaunt man in a blood-spattered gray suit.
Matteo was Declan’s personal head of security, a former military sniper who had served the Rossi family for fifteen years.
His suppressed SIG Sauer was drawn, his gray eyes darting across the room until they landed on Declan sitting on the floor.
Matteo let out a long, ragged exhale and lowered the muzzle of his weapon toward the carpet.
“Christ on the cross, Don Rossi,” Matteo whispered, stepping inside and locking the door behind him.
“The radio chatter said you were dead in your bed and the bride had fled into the woods.”
“I was almost dead,” Declan said, reaching up to grip the edge of the mattress and hauling himself onto his feet.
He swayed slightly as orthostatic hypotension tugged at his balance, but his spine remained completely straight.
Matteo looked from Declan’s ruined shirt to Nora, taking in her blood-stained gown and the ceramic blade in her hand.
“Who the hell are you?” Matteo asked, his hand tightening instinctively around the grip of his pistol.
“Put the gun away, Matteo,” Declan commanded, his voice slicing through the tension like a straight razor.
“She is the reason my body isn't lying cold in the city morgue right now.”
Matteo’s jaw dropped slightly, an unprecedented display of emotion from a man known as the Icepick of South Side.
“Don Rossi, Silvio has already convened an emergency council in the lower ballroom,” Matteo reported urgently.
“He has all five capos seated at the horseshoe table.”
“Bianca told them she saw you collapsed on the floor through the cracked doorway, suffocating to death.”
“They are currently reviewing the emergency succession protocols to vote Silvio in as acting don before sunrise.”
Declan walked slowly toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror mounted on the dressing room door.
He examined his reflection: pale skin, shadowed eyes, but the deadly fire in his gaze burned hotter than ever.
“Silvio thinks he has six hours before anyone questions the legitimacy of my death,” Declan whispered.
“He plans to secure the union accounts, seize the docks, and execute my loyal men before dawn breaks.”
“He already has three enforcers standing outside your personal office,” Matteo confirmed grimly.
“Then we will not keep my dear uncle waiting,” Declan said, turning toward Nora with a slow, calculating appraisal.
Nora stood there, completely unbothered by the violence radiating from the two men in the room.
Her ivory dress was splattered with grime and blood, her bare shoulders exposed, her curved figure commanding and solid.
She did not look like a frightened mob wife; she looked like a general surveying the smoking ruins of an enemy fort.
“You took this contract to protect your little cousin,” Declan said, stepping directly in front of Nora.
“I took it to keep my family alive,” Nora corrected him, meeting his dark eyes without blinking.
“The contract is void now,” Declan said, his voice dropping into an intimate, dangerous register.
“Because if you walk down those stairs with me tonight, you are not Elena’s stand-in.”
“You will be Nora Rossi, the first lady of Chicago, and the only person authorized to put a bullet between Silvio’s eyes.”
May you like
Nora smiled—a sharp, cold expression that made Matteo take an involuntary step backward.
“Don Rossi,” Nora whispered, reaching down to adjust the heavy knife beneath her lace, “I wouldn't miss that breakfast for the world.”
