Chapter 6 - The Bitter Tea
Daniel Moretti’s private estate was a sprawling, impenetrable stone mansion on the shores of Lake Michigan.
The gates were guarded by men carrying automatic weapons, and the walls were topped with razor wire and security cameras.
When Silas’s battered SUV tore through the front gates, the compound went into immediate lockdown.
Daniel had checked himself out of the hospital against medical advice just hours ago.
He refused to die in a sterile white room surrounded by strangers.
He lay in his massive, mahogany bed, an IV line hooked to his arm, looking pale and exhausted.
Marcus and Sylvia stood by the fireplace, pretending to be the concerned, loving family members.
“You should be resting, brother,” Marcus said, pouring a glass of scotch to hide his trembling hands.
Sylvia held a steaming cup of chamomile tea, stirring it with a silver spoon.
“Drink this, Daniel,” Sylvia purred, stepping toward the bed. “It has special herbs to help your heart recover.”
Daniel reached for the cup with a weak, shaking hand.
Before his fingers could touch the porcelain, the heavy bedroom doors were violently kicked open.
Silas strode into the room, his suit torn and covered in brick dust, his gun drawn and pointed directly at Marcus.
Behind him, wet and shivering, stepped Eleanor and little Annie.
Daniel’s tired eyes snapped to the doorway.
The tea cup slipped from his fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor, spilling the toxic liquid everywhere.
“Margaret?” Daniel whispered, his voice cracking with impossible, overwhelming emotion.
Marcus dropped his glass of scotch, his face turning the color of ash.
“Silas, what is the meaning of this?!” Marcus screamed, trying to sound authoritative. “Lower your weapon!”
Sylvia backed against the wall, her eyes darting toward the spilled tea on the floor.
Annie stepped out from behind Silas, clutching her canvas bag.
She looked at the spilled tea, then looked up at Sylvia.
“You’re the lady from the hospital,” Annie said, her voice clear and brave in the quiet room.
“Why did your tea smell like the rat poison the landlord uses in our basement?”
The entire room froze.
Daniel slowly turned his head to look at the puddle of tea on the floor, noticing a strange, faint blue residue mixing with the liquid.
He looked at Sylvia’s trembling hands. He looked at Marcus’s terrified face.
Decades of mafia intuition instantly connected the final, horrifying puzzle pieces.
It wasn't a rival gang that had poisoned him on the train.
It was his own blood.
“Marcus,” Daniel said.
His voice was no longer weak. It was a low, terrifying rumble that promised absolute, inescapable death.
“You poisoned me.”
Marcus backed away, raising his hands in sheer panic.
“No, Daniel! It’s a lie! That child is lying!”
Daniel slowly sat up in the bed, pulling the IV line out of his arm without flinching.
He looked past the traitors and locked eyes with the little girl in the blue coat.
He saw the familiar, stubborn shape of her jaw. He saw the dark, deep eyes that haunted his dreams every single night.
“Jonathan?” Daniel whispered, a single tear escaping his cold, hard eyes.
Eleanor stepped forward, holding Annie’s hand tightly.
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“She is your granddaughter, Daniel,” Eleanor said proudly. “Her name is Annie.”
Daniel Moretti, the most feared man in Chicago, began to weep.
