Chapter 3 - THE WAITING ROOM OF HELL
The world outside my comatose state was a tempest of violence and sterile hospital lights. While machines forced air into my paralyzed lungs and filtered the heavy metals from my blood, Alessandro waged a silent, terrifying war in the penthouse waiting room of the Rossi Private Clinic.
Marco stood by the reinforced glass window, watching the rain assault the city. Alessandro sat in a leather chair, his hands clasped together, his knuckles white. The black dinner jacket was long gone, his white shirt stained with my makeup and the red wine from the overturned table.
“The doctors say the next twelve hours are critical,” Marco said quietly. “It was a synthetic neurotoxin. Extremely rare. Tasteless in heavy, rich foods like chocolate.”
Alessandro didn't blink. He was staring at the blank wall, but his mind was playing the security footage from Il Cielo on an endless loop. He had demanded the hard drives before leaving the restaurant.
“Bring the girl to me,” Alessandro commanded, his voice devoid of all warmth.
Twenty minutes later, little Emma was brought into the clinic. She was clean now, wrapped in a blanket that swallowed her small frame, clutching a cup of hot chocolate with trembling hands. She looked terrified at the grim men surrounding her, but when she saw Alessandro, she recognized the gravity in his eyes.
“You saved my life,” Alessandro said to her, his tone dropping to a gentle, quiet register he reserved only for me. “But my fiancé ate the cake that was meant for me. I need you to think, Emma. The woman in the red dress. You said she looked like Siena. Like the woman at the table.”
Emma nodded slowly. “She had the same hair. Same red dress. But…”
“But what, piccola?”
“Her shoes were different,” the child said softly. “The lady at the table had shiny red shoes that went click-clack. The bad lady had quiet shoes. Black ones. And she was crying.”
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Alessandro froze. Crying. A professional assassin wouldn't be crying in the kitchen corridor. This was someone forced into the act, someone terrified, wearing a disguise specifically meant to frame Siena if things went wrong, or to slip past the security guards who were used to seeing Siena in a red dress that evening.
“Marco,” Alessandro stood up, the dangerous, lethal energy returning to his frame. “Lock down the city. Pull every camera from the blocks surrounding Il Cielo. Find the woman in the black shoes.”
