Page 59 of Hateful Vows
“In Manchester,” I tell her. “I don’t think?—”
“You were ready to accuse me but Lorenzo whom you’ve known for just a few years is beyond reproach?” Lucie admonishes and she’s right.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Fuck, I don’t know how it could happen.” I pull my hair at the roots, my vision getting blurry with hurt and doubt.
“Oleander poison doesn’t work fast. Your father probably ingested it over the course of months, if not years,” she says and I don’t have time to ask how she learnt all this. Clarity hits me like a freight train.
“If my father ingested poison in his own home but my mother lived…” I swallow around bile. “It means my staff knew about it.” My voice takes on a dark edge. Olivier is the only person who cooks in this house.
He saw me grow, him and his wife were loyal to my family for years. To think they could have murdered my father, someone they knew and respected for so long.
“We exhume my father. Look for the poison. Then, we summon the traitors.”
The words ring hollow and pained. A toxic sensation slithers across my skin. I want to annihilate them, and mourn them at the same time.
For two days, I bide my time, but I don’t eat anything Olivier prepares.
Anxiety swirls in my gut, all I can think about is how long they have looked me in the eyes while they killed the man who raised me, the one who loved my mother so intensely. He had his faults, but he deserved better than to be poisoned over time by the people he trusted most.
When Irina brings me the toxicology report, her face somber and ready for war, I already know what it will tell me.
“Line them up,” I tell Tino.
Our feet are heavy as we gather in the bright kitchen in the middle of the afternoon. My vision wavers as I imagine blood spreading on the pristine floor.
Olivier is cleaning up the pans while Margot is closing the garbage bag, readying to go home until tomorrow. They usually leave enough food for my mother to re-heat in the evening, though she forgets more and more these days.
“Mr Ventura?”
I whip my gun out of its holster and hold it to his face. His wife yelps but he simply raises his hands in surrender. Jaw set. Eyes hard. Ready to die.
Tino clasps a hand above the maid’s mouth, holding her tight as she fights against him. She doesn’t stand a chance.
My throat clogs until I can’t swallow and tears threaten to fall on my cheeks.
“Why?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Dante. It was your father or my daughter. She’s only fifteen. Do what you have to do but leave Olivia and my wife out of it. I beg you.”
He drops to his knees, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Who paid you?”
He clamps his lips shut, shakes his head. Tears escape his eyes.
“Who paid you!?”
I raise my weapon. My hand wavers. Margot cries and fights Tino with anguish on her blotched face.
I have killed hundreds of men and never lost a night of sleep over them. Bad men, good men. Men who stole, men who killed. I never doubted, never wavered. But Olivier's weathered face is one I’m so familiar with, almost as much as my father’s was. I know the lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. I know his boisterous smile and his indulgent one. I know he loves to kiss his wife’s neck when she passes as they do chores around the house together.
He’s ever silent and discreet, yet always made sweet treats for me even when my father forbade me to eat them. I barely knew he had a daughter.
Shame coats me head to toe, the weight of what I must do so heavy on my shoulders I fear I might crumble.
Irina enters my vision field, standing just a little on my left right. All I see is her. Determined, cold eyes meet mine. Her slender hand slides against mine towards the trigger.
“I’m a coward,” I breathe.
