Chapter 2 - THE EYES IN THE ALCOVE
"The man with the ruined jaw," Dominic rasped, his voice sounding like crushed glass being dragged across concrete. "He was standing right beside your cleaning cart yesterday. They know you watch."
Bridget’s blood turned to ice in her veins. The man with the ruined jaw. That was Silas, Vincent's chief enforcer, a man who looked like he had survived a meat grinder and took it out on the rest of the world. She had seen him yesterday, leaning against the marble pillar in the hallway while she polished the banister. She thought she was invisible. She thought she was just the cleaning lady.
Dominic’s chest heaved, his gray eyes locking onto hers with a ferocity that defied his broken body. The poison had stolen his muscles, his mobility, and his empire, but it had not touched his mind. He had been trapped inside his own skull, screaming in silence, watching the people he trusted orchestrate his murder.
"You cut the line," he whispered, his jaw trembling with the colossal effort it took just to speak. "If they walk in here... and see the severed tube... we both die before noon."
Panic threatened to choke her, but Bridget forced it down. She was a survivor. You didn't grow up where she did, dodging fists and eviction notices, without learning how to pivot when the floor dropped out from under you. She looked at the severed plastic tube, then at the IV bag still dripping the deadly clear liquid.
"I need tape," she muttered, her eyes scanning the opulent, sterile room. "And I need somewhere for the poison to go."
"Top drawer," Dominic commanded, his voice barely a breath. "Medical tape. Tape the line... run the drainage... into the mattress pad."
Bridget moved with terrifying speed. She ripped open the heavy mahogany nightstand drawer, her fingers scrambling until they closed around a roll of clear surgical tape. She grabbed the severed ends of the IV tube, pressing them together, but leaving a tiny, imperceptible gap. She wrapped the tape tightly around the joint, making it look seamless to the naked eye. Then, she took the lower half of the tube—the part that was supposed to feed into Dominic’s vein—and carefully tucked the microscopic opening under the thick, absorbent layers of the medical mattress pad beneath his arm.
The poison would still drip from the bag. The level would still go down. But instead of flooding Dominic’s bloodstream, the deadly thallium would soak harmlessly into the cotton batting.
"Done," she breathed, stepping back and wiping a bead of cold sweat from her forehead.
"Now," Dominic said, his gaze piercing through her. "You have to hurt me."
Bridget blinked. "What?"
"Vincent comes in every morning at ten," Dominic choked out, his eyes flickering toward the antique grandfather clock in the corner. It was 9:58 AM. "He looks for decline. He looks for pain. The thallium makes my nerves burn. If I don't look like I'm in agony... he'll know something changed. I can't move my arms yet. You have to press on my joints. Hard."
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the heavy oak doors. Two pairs of expensive Italian leather shoes. Vincent and the doctor.
Bridget didn't hesitate. She grabbed her dusting cloth, pretended to clean the edge of the bedframe, and as the door handle began to turn, she dug her knuckles brutally into Dominic's knee joint.
A ragged, agonizing groan tore from Dominic’s throat. His body spasmed perfectly as the doors swung wide open.
Vincent stepped into the room, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his face wearing a mask of rehearsed grief. Behind him hovered Dr. Pendleton, holding his silver medical case like a weapon.
"Still the same?" Vincent asked, his eyes darting to the IV bag to ensure the fluid level was dropping.
"Worse, it seems," Dr. Pendleton murmured, stepping closer. He looked at Bridget, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You. Cleaning girl. You’re in the way."
"Sorry, sir," Bridget whispered, keeping her head bowed, playing the role of the terrified, invisible maid perfectly. "Just finishing the dusting."
"Get out," Vincent snapped, not even looking at her. "And tell the kitchen to send up my coffee. The house feels dead today. I need a jolt."
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Bridget clutched her cleaning caddy, keeping her eyes glued to the floor as she scurried past them. But just before she crossed the threshold, she risked one final glance back at the bed.
Vincent was smiling. The doctor was checking the taped IV line. And Dominic Costello, the dying king, was looking straight at the ceiling, his jaw locked in a silent promise of absolute, unholy vengeance.
