Chapter 9 - THE LAST DOSE

Nobody moved.

Vincent held the gun like it belonged there.

His shirt was torn from crawling through the ventilation shaft.

Blood marked one sleeve.

But his hand was steady.

Dante looked at him.

Fourteen years of trust stood between them.

Then disappeared.

“You should’ve stayed in the room,” Dante said.

Vincent almost smiled.

“You should’ve died in yours.”

Matteo’s gun was low by his thigh.

Vincent noticed.

“Drop it.”

Matteo did.

Leo followed.

The guards did too.

I didn’t have a gun.

For once, being the florist had advantages.

Vincent looked at me.

“You ruined months of work.”

“You poisoned the wrong man.”

“No.”

His eyes went to Dante.

“I poisoned exactly the right one.”

Dante’s voice stayed flat.

“My father killed yours.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened.

“My father begged him to listen.”

Dante said nothing.

Vincent stepped closer.

“Antonio Santoro did not poison Enzo Moretti. Your father knew that before the fire.”

Leo looked up.

“That’s not possible.”

Vincent laughed.

“You were there, Leo. You saw what men become when fear gives them permission.”

Leo went pale.

Dante’s face did not move.

“Who poisoned him?”

“My uncle. My mother’s brother. He was stealing from the ports. Enzo discovered it. My father tried to expose him.”

“And my father blamed Antonio anyway?”

“He needed someone loyal enough to die quietly.”

Dante absorbed that without blinking.

Vincent’s voice dropped.

“I grew up watching your family call my father a traitor. You gave me a job because you thought it proved Morettis were merciful.”

His eyes turned hard.

“I took the job because I wanted to stand close enough to watch the house collapse.”

Matteo said, “So you poison Dante, frame me, steal the companies, and call that justice?”

Vincent looked at him.

“No. I call it inheritance.”

Then Dante coughed.

Once.

Twice.

His hand went to his throat.

I looked at him.

His pupils had changed.

His breathing tightened.

“No.”

Vincent smiled.

Very slightly.

“The inhaler.”

Dante looked at the silver device in his hand.

“I didn’t use it.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I understood.

Contact contamination.

Residue on the mouthpiece.

Dante had touched it.

Then, without thinking, touched his lips when he coughed.

Not enough for a full dose.

Maybe enough for trouble.

I grabbed a clean cloth from my bag and wiped his mouth and hands.

Vincent pointed the gun at me.

“Stop.”

“No.”

“Camilla.”

Dante’s voice was strained.

“Do what he says.”

I looked at him.

“No.”

Vincent’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Then Leo moved.

Not toward the gun.

Toward the breaker panel.

He slapped the switch.

Darkness.

Gunshot.

Someone shouted.

I hit the floor.

Another shot cracked against concrete.

Then a body slammed into the table.

Glass shattered.

Matteo cursed.

When the emergency lights flickered on, Vincent was on the ground.

Dante stood over him.

Barely.

One hand pressed to his side.

For one terrible second, I thought the blood was his.

It wasn’t.

Vincent had been hit in the shoulder.

Leo held the gun now.

Matteo kicked Vincent’s weapon away.

“Call an ambulance,” I shouted.

Dante looked at me.

“For him?”

“For both of you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are turning blue.”

That finally got his attention.

I shoved the inhaler into an evidence bag.

Then I called the toxicology team myself.

No herbs.

No miracle tea.

No dramatic kitchen cure.

This time Dante needed a hospital.

Real monitoring.

Real toxicology.

Real chelation if the lab confirmed another significant exposure.

And for once, the most powerful man in the room did exactly what I told him.

Mostly because he collapsed before he could argue.

At the hospital, armed men filled the private floor.

Doctors worked for hours.

Matteo paced.

Leo sat with blood on his cuff that belonged to three different people.

Vincent went into surgery under police guard after Leo handed over the recordings, the forged documents, and the poison lab.

At four thirteen in the morning, a toxicologist came through the doors.

“He’s stable.”

I exhaled for what felt like the first time in a day.

“Neurological symptoms may take time,” the doctor continued. “But the ongoing source is gone. That matters.”

Matteo sat down hard.

Leo covered his face.

I looked through the glass at Dante.

Alive.

Still impossible.

Still dangerous.

But alive.

Then a nurse handed me an evidence envelope recovered from Vincent’s jacket.

Inside was one last document.

A handwritten letter from Antonio Santoro.

Addressed to Enzo Moretti.

Dated three days before the warehouse fire.

At the bottom was a name.

The real man who poisoned Enzo.

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And the signature proved Vincent had lied about one final thing.

His father had not been innocent.