Chapter 7 - The Confrontation
The room fell into an absolute, suffocating silence.
Marco stared at the silver tin, then his eyes flicked to the technical header on the laboratory paper: SPECTROMETRY ANALYSIS: NEUROTOXIC DERIVATIVES.
The color drained from Marco’s face so fast it looked as if his blood had stopped flowing altogether.
“Dominic...” Marco stammered, his hand twitching near his water glass. “What... what is this?”
“Read the second page, Marco,” I said, my voice devoid of any heat, cold as winter steel. “It details how three drops of synthetic nightshade added daily to a man’s tea will prevent him from entering deep sleep. How it slowly burns out his heart, destroys his mind, and makes him look like he’s losing his sanity.”
The other six captains at the table leaned forward, their faces darkening as they realized what was being laid out before them. In our world, a direct attack on the Boss was treason, but poisoning a family member over three years was a coward’s act that disgusted even the hardest criminals in Brooklyn.
“This is absurd!” Marco shouted, slamming his hand on the table and standing up. “You’re losing your mind, Dominic! You’re paranoid! Look at you—you haven't slept in three years and now you’re accusing your own cousin—”
“Sophia saw you,” I cut in quietly.
Marco froze mid-sentence.
“She saw you in the pantry two weeks ago,” I continued, standing up slowly, towering over him at the end of the table. “And then you threatened to take her three-year-old daughter away if she spoke a word.”
Marco’s eyes darted toward the exit. Frankie was already standing behind his chair, his heavy hand resting lightly on the butt of his sidearm.
“You poisoned my tea for three years, Marco,” I said, walking slowly around the table toward him. “You watched me bleed from the inside out. You watched me stare at the ceiling every night until I thought I was going crazy. And all because you wanted Julian’s chair.”
“Dominic, wait—” Marco backed up until his spine hit the glass window overlooking the rainy river. “We can talk about this! We’re blood!”
“You stopped being blood the day you put poison in my cup,” I said.
I looked at the senior captains sitting at the table. Captain Salvi—the oldest man in the organization—stood up, looked Marco up and down with utter disgust, and spat on the floor.
May you like
“He’s done, Dominic,” Salvi said sternly. “The board votes unanimous.”
Marco slumped against the glass, his tailored confidence completely shattered, realizing he had played a three-year game and lost it all in a single evening.
