Page 73 of Vicious Redemption

Sighing in frustration, I plop down onto the foot of the bed and bury my face in my hands.

A soft knock on the door steals my attention a moment later.

“Come in,” I call.

It must be one of the servants. Leo would never wait for permission. Still, I hold out hope, my breath catching in my lungs until the door opens.

“Lunch is ready, signora,” Trudy says, shuffling through the door with a tray.

“Thank you, Trudy,” I say, releasing my breath as my shoulders slump.

“Don’t look too disappointed, signora. I made you your favorite sandwich—peanut butter, pickle, and marshmallow.”

Trudy looks a little green just listing the ingredients, but it does make me smile that she went to the effort. Normally, she insists I need to do it myself if I intend to ruin her sandwiches with my weird pickle craving.

“Thank you,” I say, moving to the sitting area as she sets my tray on the table.

She also brought me the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos I’ve been downing by the handful lately and a hot tea.

“Any news I’m allowed to hear?” I ask tentatively, already bracing for the lack of eye contact that’s sure to follow.

Instead, Trudy levels me with a soft, sad gaze. “From what I’ve heard, the doctor called with Don Moretti’s autopsy results.”

“And?” I press, my anxiety spiking.

Trudy glances nervously toward the door, as if she’s unsure whether she’s allowed to say anything. “The rumor is he might have been poisoned with potassium chloride. Whatever that means. But the doctor wouldn’t confirm whether that means someone tried to kill him or if it was an oversight in medical care.”

My fingers find my lips as the news stuns me. And I stare at the maid in shocked silence. I can see the pity in her eyes. If she knows the rumors about Don Moretti’s autopsy, then surely she understands the implications behind their results. This could very well mean my father will die a very slow, very painful death sometime in the near future.

The fact sits like lead in my stomach, and suddenly, the thought of eating is revolting.

“I’ll leave you to it, signora. Unless you need anything else…?” Her question trails off, her eyes offering for her to stay if I want her company.

“No. Thank you, Trudy. This is plenty,” I murmur, fighting the tears that sting the backs of my eyes.

With a slight curtsy, she scurries off, the door closing heavily behind her.

Poor Don Moretti, poisoned while he was weak and recovering in a hospital bed. I can hardly defend my father if that’s the kind of game he wants to play. But I can’t help a nagging suspicion at the back of my mind. Something tells me that he didn’t do it—he didn’t give the order to kill Leo’s father.

I’ve learned a lot about my family in these few short months, things I don’t particularly like or want to know about them. Facts that disappoint me and make me respect my father less and less. And yet, for some reason, I find it hard to believe he would do something so low as to attack the don when he was at his weakest.

Rebel against Leo? Sure, I can confidently say my father despises Leo. I spent years listening to the hate he holds for the Moretti family. It wouldn’t surprise me if he chose to fight Leo’s authority to his dying breath.

But my father doesn’t strike me as someone who would kill the don without taking credit. And he would do it as a declaration. A blatant act of war—like he did the night of the charity ball. But poison? As ridiculous as it might sound, that seems beneath him.

Honestly, it doesn’t even make much sense to me.

Regardless of how my father intended to kill Don Moretti, it’s not like he or any of my father’s men could get close to Marco. Leo had guards posted outside his father’s hospital room twenty-four, seven. And the men on duty—men Leo trusted with his father’s life—said they didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

It hits me like a ton of bricks then. There was no evidence of forced entry, no brute violence. If the don was murdered, it was by someone his guards wouldn’t look twice at. It was someone they would grant access to without question. Dr. Ellis, or even less conspicuous?—

A nurse.

With brilliant clarity, I recall the girl who flirted with Leo saying that she had a nurse’s outfit—“a real nurse’s outfit now,” she said. And it would likely take someone with medical knowledge to get away with that kind of murder. To know that potassium chloride could kill a man and to know how much to give him—and how to administer it—that would make it look like an accident.

My heart hammers against my ribs as it all comes together.

Didn’t Leo mention something about Don Fiore being that girl’s uncle?

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