Chapter 3 - THE CRACKED POCKET WATCH
Quiet, ragged sobs shook the powerful man’s broad shoulders.
"You gave me your life," Dante choked out, his voice cracking with an emotion he had likely suppressed for decades. "You didn't know who I was. You didn't know what I’ve done. You just saw a man dying... and you gave me your only protection."
He lifted his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, looking up at me.
"Your mother asked Silas to bag the vial," Dante said, his gaze shifting to mine with fierce intensity. "She didn't run. She didn't beg for mercy. She demanded forensic testing."
"Because I didn't put it in my apron, Mr. Russo," I said firmly, holding his gaze. "I’ve worked in this house for three years. I have cleaned your private quarters, washed your clothes, and served your meals. I have never stolen a dime, and I would never harm another human being."
Dante reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, sealed plastic evidence bag.
Inside was the glass vial—and beside it was a heavy, antique silver pocket watch with a cracked glass face.
Silas stepped forward quickly from the doorway. "Dante, you shouldn't be handling that. The crime lab team from the port haven't finished their full analysis—"
"Shut up, Silas," Dante rasped softly, without looking back.
Silas fell instantly silent, his jaw tightening.
Dante laid the evidence bag on his knee. "This pocket watch was found under the velvet cushion of my desk chair after I collapsed. It’s an antique Swiss movement. The hands stopped at exactly 10:14 PM—the precise moment the glass face shattered when someone bumped heavily into my desk during the dinner service."
He turned the bag over, pointing to an inscription engraved on the silver back casing.
To S.V. - For thirty years of loyal service. - R. Family Trust.
I gasped. S.V. Silas Veron.
Silas’s face turned the color of chalk. He instinctively reached for his sidearm.
CLACK-CLACK!
Before Silas could even unholster his weapon, two of Dante’s personal bodyguards stepped from the shadows of the corridor, jamming the barrels of their suppressed pistols directly against the back of Silas’s neck.
"Did you really think I wouldn't check the internal security feed, Silas?" Dante asked, standing up slowly with the help of his cane. His voice was no longer raspy; it was absolute steel. "You slipped the synthetic poison into my wine while I was taking a call from the shipping docks. When I started choking, you panicked, bumped into my desk, dropped your father's pocket watch, and slipped the extra vial into Clara’s cleaning apron while she was fetching towels."
"Dante... listen to me!" Silas stammered, his polished arrogance shattering into frantic fear. "The board... the council in New York... they offered me fifty percent of the port holdings! They said you were getting weak! They said you were soft!"
"I am not soft," Dante said, stepping closer to Silas, his eyes burning with lethal dark fire. "I am alive. Because a five-year-old girl has more honor, courage, and humanity in her little finger than you have in your entire miserable body."
May you like
Dante waved his hand dismissively. "Take him to the harbor warehouse. I’ll deal with him at dawn."
The guards dragged the screaming, pleading consigliere down the dark corridor, leaving the basement back in absolute quiet.
