Chapter 2 - The Prescription
By November, the estate had changed in ways the other staff whispered about in the corridors. The heavy black silk covering Isabella’s portrait in the main hall had finally been taken down. Music, soft and classical, occasionally drifted from the library. And every evening at five o'clock, Alessandro’s wheelchair could be heard rolling toward the sunroom, where Lily would sit on his lap and force him to read Make Way for Ducklings five times in a row.
I watched from the doorway, holding a fresh cup of tea. Alessandro looked healthier than he had in months. The hollows in his cheeks had softened, and his dark eyes carried a spark of life that hadn't been there when I first arrived.
“You’re spoiling her,” I said softly as I set the tea tray down on the side table.
“She is an aggressive negotiator,” Alessandro replied, a faint ghost of a smile touching his lips. He reached for the teacup, his fingers steady, though I noticed a slight tremor in his left hand as he picked up the small saucer.
“Did you take your morning dose?” I asked, glancing toward the nightstand where the brown pill bottle usually sat.
Alessandro paused, frowning slightly. “Marco brought it up at eight. Why?”
“Just checking. You looked a little unsteady during physical therapy yesterday.”
“My body stopped cooperating three years ago, Elena. That has nothing to do with the medication.”
He was dismissive, but something about the way he rubbed his temples nagged at the back of my mind. For weeks, I had noticed a strange pattern. On days when Marco personally administered the morning pills, Alessandro spent the afternoon drowsy, his speech slowed, his focus drifting. But on the weekends, when Marco took his days off and I was the one handing him his tea and medication from the backup supply, Alessandro was sharp, clear-headed, and alert.
I brushed it off as coincidence. After all, Marco was his most trusted friend. He had stood beside Alessandro's hospital bed after the bombing and promised to find the killers. He was the brother Alessandro never had.
Or so we all believed.
That night, after putting Lily to sleep in our small quarters on the third floor, I came back down to the main kitchen to fetch a glass of water. The house was dead silent, save for the wind howling through the courtyard. As I passed the ground-floor study, I noticed a sliver of light beneath the door.
Alessandro was usually asleep by midnight.
I pushed the door open gently, expecting to find him working late. Instead, the room was dark except for the desk lamp. Alessandro wasn't at the desk. He was slumped forward in his wheelchair near the bookshelves, breathing heavily, his hands gripping the armrests so hard his fingers were purple.
“Alessandro?” I gasped, rushing forward.
He lifted his head, sweat glistening on his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils dilated. “Elena... get... get Marco.”
“What happened? Are you having a stroke?”
“The tea... Marco brought a fresh cup an hour ago. My legs... they’re burning.” He clutched his chest, gasping for air. “It feels like... like the day of the crash.”
Panic surged through me. I didn't call Marco. Instead, my eyes locked onto the small trash basket beside the desk. Resting at the top of the bin was a half-empty glass of tea and a small, crumpled foil packet that had fallen from the counter.
I snatched the packet, holding it up to the desk lamp.
May you like
It wasn't his standard blood pressure medication or nerve stabilizer. It was a high-dose synthetic paralytic—the kind used in controlled medical settings to induce severe muscle weakness and respiratory depression. Combined with his existing medications, it was slowly poisoning him, mimicking natural physical decline while keeping him entirely dependent on the very people controlling his empire.
“Marco,” Alessandro whispered, a horrifying realization dawning in his glazed eyes. “He... he gave it to me.”
