Chapter 4 - THE RED THREAD
The living room felt like a powder keg waiting for a match.
I stared at the plastic evidence bag in Rossi’s hand. The red thread clung to the broken syringe, perfectly matching the expensive silk of Vanessa’s designer dress.
"What is that?" my mother asked, her voice faltering for the first time.
"It looks like medical waste," Rossi said, his eyes fixed coldly on Vanessa. "Buried right next to the roses Grace planted last month."
Vanessa took a step backward, her heels clicking against the marble floor. "This is absurd. One of the gardeners must have dropped it. I don't garden."
"No, you don't," I said, taking the bag from Rossi. "But your father owns the medical supply company that just took over the syndicate’s private clinics."
I looked at Grace. She was staring at the syringe, her face pale, but her eyes were piecing the puzzle together just as fast as I was.
"Claire’s note," Grace whispered. "She said not to trust the hospital contracts."
"Claire was paranoid," my mother snapped, though she looked uneasy. "She was pregnant and sick. Victor, you cannot honestly be listening to the daughter of a rival boss over your own fiancée."
I turned on my mother. "My fiancée just slapped the woman who raised my son. And now she's burying medical waste in my yard."
I looked at Vanessa. "What was in the syringe, Vanessa?"
Vanessa’s lips trembled. "Nothing! It's just trash! Victor, you are letting this... this mafia princess manipulate you!"
"Rossi," I said, my voice dead calm. "Have the lab run the residue in this syringe. And pull the security footage for the front gates for the last forty-eight hours."
Vanessa panicked. "You don't need to do that!"
"Why?" I asked.
"Because..." Vanessa swallowed hard, cornered. "Because it was just a sedative. For the dog."
"We don't have a dog," I said softly.
The silence returned, heavier this time.
"It was for Noah," Grace said suddenly, her voice cracking with horror.
Everyone turned to her.
"What did you say?" I asked, feeling a cold, murderous rage begin to coil in my chest.
Grace pointed at Vanessa. "Last night, Noah was crying. He had a slight fever. Vanessa came into the nursery. She told me to go take a break, that she would handle it. When I came back five minutes later, she was rushing out, and Noah was completely unresponsive. He slept for fourteen hours."
My vision blurred at the edges.
"He was just being fussy!" Vanessa shouted, dropping the act entirely. "He wouldn't stop crying for his precious 'Mama Grace'! I just gave him a little something to help him sleep! My father is a doctor, I know what I'm doing!"
I didn't think. I didn't plan.
I crossed the room in two strides, grabbed Vanessa by the throat, and slammed her against the wall.
"Victor!" my mother screamed.
I didn't care. My hand tightened like a vise. Vanessa clawed at my wrist, her eyes bulging.
"You drugged my son," I whispered, my face inches from hers. "You drugged a three-year-old boy because you were jealous."
"Victor, stop!" Grace cried out.
She grabbed my arm. Her touch wasn't violent. It was desperate.
"Don't do it in front of Noah's room," Grace pleaded. "Please. He'll hear you."
I looked at Grace. Then I looked at the hallway leading to Noah's playroom.
I released Vanessa. She collapsed to the floor, gasping and coughing.
"Rossi," I commanded. "Take her to the warehouse. Do not let anyone touch her until I get there."
"Victor, you can't!" my mother panicked. "Her father—"
"Her father is a dead man," I interrupted. I turned to my mother. "And if you ever bring another woman into this house without my consent, you will never see your grandson again."
My mother went pale. She gathered her purse and practically ran out the front door.
Rossi hauled Vanessa to her feet and dragged her out, her frantic apologies echoing down the driveway until the doors slammed shut.
The house was quiet again.
I stood in the center of the room, my hands shaking with residual adrenaline.
Grace walked over to the glass table. She picked up Claire’s silver bracelet and gently held it out to me.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you who I was," Grace said quietly.
I looked at the bracelet, then at her.
"Why didn't you?" I asked.
"Because if you knew I was Arthur Vance's daughter, you would have killed me," she said honestly. "And Claire told me Noah needed me."
I took the bracelet from her hand. Our fingers brushed.
Before I could say anything, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
It was a restricted number.
I answered it.
"Mr. Cole," a raspy, familiar voice said.
It was Vanessa’s father, Dr. Richard Bellini.
"I hear you have my daughter," he said calmly.
"You hear right," I replied.
"Let her go," Bellini said. "Or I will send the files to the federal prosecutor. The files detailing exactly how your wife really died."
I froze.
"My wife died of heart failure," I said.
"Did she?" Bellini chuckled dryly. "Check the autopsy report again, Victor. Then look at the name of the attending physician who signed it."
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The line went dead.
I lowered the phone, my blood turning to ice.
