Chapter 4 - THE WALLS HAVE EARS
Thursday night descended on the Costello estate like a suffocating blanket. The mansion was unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that precedes a devastating storm.
In the master suite, the transformation was complete, though hidden beneath the silk sheets. Dominic Costello was no longer a paralyzed, dying man. The thallium was entirely out of his system. He had spent the last forty-eight hours doing covert physical therapy in the dead of night, using Bridget as a brace while he stood, walked, and stretched his atrophied muscles. He was still weak, still down twenty pounds, but the lethal, terrifying aura of the mafia boss had returned in full force.
He was sitting up in bed, the IV needle completely removed from his arm, holding his black smartphone. His thumbs moved rapidly across the screen.
"Matteo and Luca are in position," Dominic murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "They’ve bypassed the perimeter guards. They are waiting in the storm cellar."
"Vincent dismissed most of the household staff for the evening," Bridget whispered, pacing near the heavy oak doors, listening for footsteps. "He told the chef to go home. He told the other maids to take a four-day weekend. It’s just Vincent, Dr. Pendleton, Silas, and a handful of Vincent's personal guards in the house."
"Clearing the stage for my grand exit," Dominic sneered, his fingers tracing the edge of his phone. "He wants as few witnesses as possible when the doctor stops my heart."
Bridget stopped pacing and looked at him. "Are you sure you can do this? You can barely walk across the room without losing your breath."
Dominic swung his legs over the side of the bed. He wore dark slacks and a black silk shirt Bridget had pulled from his closet. He looked like a shadow, sharp and unforgiving. He stood up, refusing to hold onto the nightstand for balance.
"I don't need to run a marathon, Bridget," he said softly, walking slowly but steadily toward her. "I just need to kill the men who tried to bury me." He stopped inches from her, looking down into her eyes. "When they come in, you need to be out of the line of fire. Hide in the bathroom. Do not come out until it's quiet."
"I'm not hiding," Bridget said fiercely, her chin tilting up. "I didn't risk my life for two weeks just to cower in a bathtub while the credits roll." She reached into her apron and pulled out a heavy, gleaming silver object. It was a suppressed 9mm pistol she had stolen from a sleeping guard’s holster in the west wing an hour ago.
Dominic stared at the weapon, then let out a low, genuinely impressed whistle. "You’re full of surprises, cleaning lady."
"You have no idea," she replied, checking the safety just like she had seen in movies, praying she wouldn't shoot her own foot off.
Before Dominic could respond, the heavy thud of boots echoed in the corridor. Multiple sets of footsteps. They weren't trying to be quiet anymore. The time for subtlety had passed.
"They’re here," Dominic hissed.
He moved with startling speed for a man who was supposed to be paralyzed. He dove back into the bed, pulling the thick duvet up to his chest, hiding his clothes. He grabbed the severed IV line and taped it hastily to his forearm, closing his eyes and letting his head loll to the side.
Bridget ducked into the deep alcove near the wardrobe, melting into the shadows, the cold steel of the pistol gripped tightly in her trembling hands.
The double doors didn't just open; they were kicked open.
Vincent strode into the room, holding a glass of amber bourbon. He looked triumphant, a king walking into his new throne room. Dr. Pendleton followed, carrying a syringe filled with a milky white substance. Silas brought up the rear, his hand resting casually on the butt of a gun tucked into his waistband.
"Look at him," Vincent said, taking a sip of his bourbon. "Pathetic. The great Dominic Costello, fading out like a dying dog."
Dr. Pendleton walked toward the IV pole. "The thallium did its job perfectly. His nervous system is completely degraded. This final injection of potassium chloride will cause an immediate, massive myocardial infarction. It will look entirely natural."
"Do it," Vincent ordered, stepping closer to the foot of the bed. "I want to watch the light go out."
Pendleton uncapped the syringe. He leaned over Dominic, reaching for the IV port.
"You know, Vincent," a deep, gravelly voice echoed through the silent room.
Dr. Pendleton froze. Vincent dropped his glass of bourbon. It shattered on the marble floor, the sharp crash deafening in the sudden, absolute silence.
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Dominic Costello’s eyes snapped open. They weren't the glassy, defeated eyes of a dying man. They were the eyes of a predator who had just locked the cage from the inside.
"If you were going to kill me," Dominic said, slowly pulling the taped IV line off his arm and tossing it aside, "you should have used a bullet. Poison is a coward's weapon."
