Chapter 12 - The Poisoned Apple
The heavy security around the estate was immediately tripled before the sun even rose the next morning.
I watched through the thick glass of the living room window as dozens of armed men patrolled the perimeter with dark, serious faces.
Leo was sitting on the carpet behind me, happily building a massive tower out of colorful plastic blocks with his new puppy sleeping at his feet.
He was entirely oblivious to the dark storm clouds gathering rapidly over our heads.
"He will not touch him, Clara," Ricardo said softly, walking into the room and wrapping his arms securely around my waist from behind.
"Victor has the entire Chicago syndicate behind him," I whispered, leaning my head back against his broad, solid chest. "He is not like the Russians. He is blood."
"He is a ghost chasing a lost cause," Ricardo replied smoothly, though I could hear the deep exhaustion hiding in his voice.
Later that afternoon, a beautiful, anonymous gift basket arrived at the heavy iron gates of the estate.
The security team scanned it for explosives and poisons before bringing it into the kitchen for my inspection.
It was filled with expensive chocolates, rare fruits, and a beautiful, hand-painted wooden toy train.
Tucked between the velvet ribbons was a thick, cream-colored envelope addressed simply to me.
I opened it with trembling fingers while Ricardo stood tensely by my side.
Inside was a single photograph of Elena holding a newborn Leo, and on the back, Victor had written a message in elegant black ink.
"A child belongs with his true blood. Enjoy your borrowed time."
Ricardo snatched the photograph from my hands, his eyes burning with absolute, unfiltered rage.
"Burn it," Ricardo ordered his head of security, tearing the photograph in half and throwing it on the counter. "Burn the entire basket."
"Wait," I said, reaching into the basket and pulling out the beautifully painted wooden train.
I turned the train over in my hands, my blood running completely cold as I noticed a tiny, flashing red light embedded in the wood.
It was an active listening device.
"He wants us to know he can get inside," I realized out loud, my voice shaking as I handed the bug to Ricardo.
Ricardo crushed the wooden toy in his massive hand, splintering it into a dozen sharp pieces.
"No one leaves the house," Ricardo commanded the guards, his voice echoing loudly off the marble walls. "Lock down the entire estate. We have a rat."
The terrifying realization washed over me like a bucket of ice water.
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Someone inside our heavily guarded fortress was working for Victor Rossi.
The sanctuary we had built for our son was no longer safe.
