Page 130 of The Serpent's Bride
He knew something was wrong.
“Chiara,” he said carefully.
My stomach dropped. “Yes?”
His eyes stayed locked on mine. Sergio looked suspicious of me, but he waved me off. Relief settled in the pit of my stomach.
Chapter Twenty-Two: LEO
Hospitalssmelledwrong.Toosterile. Too clean in the way places became when people were constantly dying inside them. Bleach. Antiseptic. Artificial lemon. Underneath it all lingered the faint metallic scent of sickness, impossible to fully erase. Human weakness soaked into the walls no matter how expensive the private wing was.
The elevator climbed in silence toward the top floor while the city glittered beyond the glass behind me, drowned in rain and midnight haze. My reflection stared back from the mirrored walls of the elevator: black suit, dark tie loosened at the throat, tattoos peeking from beneath expensive cuffs. A predator in a place built to preserve dying men.
The antidote rested inside my coat pocket. Small glass vial. Clear liquid. Worth more than most people’s lives.
My chemist spent months perfecting it after I designed the poison itself. The compound was elegant. Slow. Cruel. It destroyed from the inside out while keeping the victim lucid enough to feel every stage of their body betraying them.
Lorenzo Ventura should’ve been dead already. The fact he wasn’t was because of me.
The elevator doors slid open. Two of my men stood outside the hospital suite in dark suits, hands folded neatly in front of them. Neither looked comfortable surrounded by nurses and polished marble floors.
“Boss.”
I acknowledged them with a slight nod and walked forward. The private wing was silent except for the distant hum of machines and muted footsteps behind closed doors. Soft yellow lighting reflected off marble floors. Wealth disguised suffering better than most places.
Room 1907. I stopped outside the door for a second. Not because I hesitated. Because Chiara’s face flashed through my mind unexpectedly. Blue eyes filled with tears. That broken voice whispering. Papa’s going to hurt them because of me.
The memory sat badly in my chest. I pushed the door open. Warm air rolled toward me first. Humid. Sour. Then came Lorenzo Ventura. He looked fucking disgusting. The poison had hollowed him out fast.
His skin carried that faint gray-green undertone that came before organs started shutting down permanently. Sweat drenched the collar of his expensive silk robe despite the cool room. Dark circles bruised the flesh beneath his eyes. His once-heavy body looked swollen in some places and skeletal in others, like death couldn’t decide what parts of him to take first. But his eyes… Those remained vicious.
They snapped toward me, full of hatred sharp enough to cut through morphine.
“Leo Moretti,” Lorenzo rasped from the hospital bed. “The fucking serpent himself.”
His voice sounded shredded. Good. I quietly shut the door behind me.
The monitor beside his bed beeped steadily, though the rhythm stuttered every few seconds whenever pain twisted through him. An oxygen tube rested beneath his nose. IV lines disappeared beneath thin hospital blankets.
He looked weak. I expected satisfaction. Instead, disappointment spread slowly through me.
“You look worse,” I said calmly.
Lorenzo coughed out a laugh that turned wet halfway through. “Go fuck yourself.”
I crossed the room slowly, taking my time. Rain hammered softly against the giant windows overlooking the city below. Manhattan looked blurred tonight. Smudged gold lights drowning beneath black clouds.
The world continued spinning while Lorenzo Ventura rotted alive in a hospital bed. Funny how little the city cared.
“You came alone?” he asked suspiciously.
“Do I need protection from a dying man?” I asked.
“Cocky prick,” Lorenzo hissed. I glanced toward the untouched tray of food beside his bed. Soup gone cold. Bread hardening at the edges. Water untouched.
“Nurses having trouble feeding you?” I asked.
“They keep trying.”
