Chapter 3 - POISON IN THE SOIL
Three days passed in a haze of terrifying espionage. To the rest of the Costello syndicate, the mansion was a waiting room for death. To Bridget, it was a war zone hidden in plain sight.
Every morning, she brought her cleaning cart into the master suite. Every morning, she checked the taped IV line, ensured the poison was draining into the mattress pad, and swapped out the saturated cotton for fresh, dry padding she smuggled in beneath her aprons.
And every day, Dominic Costello clawed his way back from the grave.
Without the daily influx of thallium paralyzing his nervous system, his body began the brutal, agonizing process of detoxification. The withdrawal was horrific. He suffered violent tremors, cold sweats, and silent, muscle-tearing spasms. Because Vincent or the doctor could walk in at any moment, Dominic had to endure the agony without making a sound. Bridget would stand beside his bed, running a damp cloth over his burning forehead, whispering fierce, grounding words to keep him anchored.
"Breathe," she commanded quietly, her hands steady as she wiped the sweat from his neck while he shook violently. "You don't get to die yet. You owe me too much money for doing two jobs."
A weak, breathy chuckle escaped his cracked lips. It was the first time she had heard him laugh. "You're... charging me... hazard pay?"
"I'm charging you a king's ransom," she fired back, her eyes constantly darting to the locked bedroom door. "Can you move your fingers today?"
Dominic stared at his right hand, resting limply on the silk sheets. He concentrated, his jaw clenching with absolute effort. Slowly, agonizingly, his index finger twitched. Then his middle finger. He curled them inward, forming a weak, trembling fist.
"Yes," he whispered, a dangerous light igniting in his gray eyes. "The feeling is coming back. The fire in my veins is fading."
"Good," Bridget said, quickly unpacking the hidden compartment of her cleaning caddy. She pulled out two bottles of electrolyte-heavy sports drinks and a crushed protein bar she had smuggled from the kitchen. "You need real calories. The IV fluid is just saline and poison. You're starving to death."
She broke the protein bar into tiny pieces, feeding them to him carefully so he wouldn't choke, followed by small sips of the sports drink. With every bite he took, the dynamic in the room shifted. He wasn't just a victim anymore. He was a predator healing in the shadows.
"Why are you doing this, Bridget?" he asked suddenly, his voice clearer, deeper than it had been in weeks. He looked at her not as a maid, but as an equal. "You could have taken that vial, gone to the police, or just walked out the front door and disappeared. Why stay and risk a bullet?"
Bridget paused, the plastic bottle hovering near his lips. She looked away, staring at the opulent, suffocating walls of the mansion.
"Because I know what it looks like when people decide you don't matter," she said softly, her voice carrying a hardened edge of old trauma. "My whole life, people have looked at me and decided I was expendable. They did the same thing to you. They put you in this bed and decided your story was over so they could steal your crown. I hate people who write other people's endings."
Dominic’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second, before hardening into steel. "Vincent is going to push the timeline," he warned. "He’s getting restless. I heard him talking on the phone last night while you were gone. He’s meeting with the Five Families at the end of the week. He wants to announce his succession."
"Which means he needs you dead before Friday," Bridget concluded, her stomach twisting into a cold knot.
"Exactly. Dr. Pendleton will administer a final, fatal dose. Something fast. Potassium chloride, maybe, to stop the heart. It will look like a natural cardiac arrest caused by my 'illness'."
"Then we need to be ready before Friday."
"I need my phone," Dominic said, his trembling hand reaching out to grip her wrist. His grip was still weak, but the intent behind it was unshakeable. "It’s in the wall safe behind the painting of the hunting dogs. The combination is four-twelve-eighty-one. I have loyal men on the outside. Men Vincent couldn't buy. If I can text them... we set the trap."
Bridget nodded, moving swiftly to the painting. She swung it open, dialed the combination, and retrieved the sleek black smartphone. She slipped it under Dominic's pillow.
Just as she closed the safe, the sound of the bedroom door handle rattling shattered the silence. The door was locked. Bridget had locked it from the inside.
"Why the hell is this door locked?" Vincent’s furious voice boomed from the hallway. "Doc, get the master key!"
Bridget’s heart slammed against her ribs. She sprinted back to the bed, shoved the electrolyte bottles into her apron, and threw herself onto her knees beside the bed, scrubbing frantically at a nonexistent stain on the carpet.
Dominic instantly let his body go slack, his eyes rolling back slightly, his mouth hanging open in a mask of near-death.
The door clicked and slammed open. Vincent stormed in, his face red with rage, Silas the enforcer looming right behind him.
"What are you doing in here?" Vincent roared, glaring down at Bridget.
"T-the door got stuck, sir!" Bridget stammered, projecting perfect, trembling terror. "The latch—it slipped when I closed it! I was just cleaning the baseboards!"
Vincent sneered in disgust. He looked at Dominic’s lifeless-looking body, then back at Bridget. "Get out. If you ever lock this door again, Silas will break both your hands. Do you understand?"
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"Yes, Mr. Costello," she whispered, fleeing the room.
As she walked down the hall, Silas’s heavy footsteps followed her for a few paces. She could feel his ruined, sadistic eyes burning into her back. The war was officially on, and the clock was ticking down to Friday.
