Chapter 2 Poison and Lies

We escaped the hospital through the morgue, which seemed fitting given our occupations. Dante moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd never been bedridden—confirming my suspicions that his "coma" had been an elaborate charade. The cool night air hit my face as we slipped into the shadows, the sound of sirens wailing in the distance.

"Your place or mine?" Dante asked with infuriating casualness, adjusting the stolen orderly uniform he'd acquired during our escape.

"Neither," I replied coldly. "Safe house. Three miles east."

He nodded as if he'd expected this answer. We moved in silence through back alleys, both hyperaware of potential threats. I kept my hand near my prosthetic leg, ready to deploy another weapon if needed. Dante had two guns tucked into his waistband and carried himself like a loaded spring, ready to unleash violence at the slightest provocation.

"So," he finally said as we approached an abandoned warehouse district, "you've been poisoning me for months. Was it the 'vitamins' or something else?"

I shot him a sideways glance. "Worried?"

"Curious." His voice betrayed no fear. "Most poisons would have killed me by now."

"It's a specially designed neurotoxin," I admitted, seeing no point in hiding it now. "Slow-acting. Degrades myelin sheaths progressively. You'd have remained conscious while losing function of your extremities, then your organs. Death would have taken about a year—plenty of time for you to suffer."

Instead of looking concerned, Dante smiled. "Elegant. For your sister?"

"Among other reasons."

We reached my safe house—a nondescript apartment above a closed-down laundromat. I unlocked three separate security systems before leading him inside. The space was spartan: a bed, a kitchenette, surveillance equipment, and an arsenal disguised as ordinary furniture.

"Cozy," Dante commented, immediately locating and checking the exit points.

I went to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water, tossing one to him. "Drink. You're dehydrated from months of inadequate fluid intake."

He caught it one-handed but didn't open it. "Ladies first."

I twisted the cap off mine and took a deliberate sip. "It's not poisoned. I prefer to watch my victims' faces when I kill them."

"A woman after my own heart." He finally drank, his eyes never leaving mine.

I sat at the small table, my prosthetic leg aching where it met my flesh. I needed to adjust it, but wouldn't show that vulnerability in front of him.

"Marina disappeared eighteen months ago," I said without preamble. "She was dating your lieutenant, Carlo. Then suddenly, she vanished. No body, no trace. But I found her necklace—our mother's necklace—in Carlo's apartment before it too mysteriously burned down."

Dante's expression darkened. "Carlo was working for someone else. Feeding information to the Barzini family. When I found out, I handled it."

"By 'handled,' you mean you killed him."

"Yes." No hesitation, no remorse.

"And my sister?"

"I never met her. Never ordered any hit. If Carlo did something to her, it wasn't on my command."

I studied his face for any sign of deception. Finding none didn't mean it wasn't there—men like Dante Moretti were professional liars.

"Why should I believe you?" I asked.

"Because if I wanted you dead, you would be." He leaned forward. "Instead, I let you poison me for months while I investigated who really betrayed us both."

I reached into a hidden compartment under the table and produced a syringe. "Speaking of poison... How long have you known about the toxin?"

"Since the third dose," he said calmly. "Your technique was flawless, but the compound has a distinct scent—like almonds, but more metallic."

"And yet you didn't stop me."

"I was curious how far you'd go."

I twirled the syringe between my fingers. "And how did you survive? This would kill an elephant."

Dante's smile was wolfish as he reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a catheter tube. "I had my own insurance policy. Antidote, administered continuously through a fake catheter."

I couldn't help but laugh. "So I poisoned you..."

"And I neutralized it. Every day. For months."

"We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

The tension between us shifted, something electric replacing the cold hostility. I couldn't deny there was a certain admiration forming—the kind that exists between equally matched predators.

"The eggs," Dante said abruptly. "Why did you harvest my sperm while I was supposedly comatose?"

I set down the syringe. "Insurance. A Moretti heir would be valuable leverage in your world."

"Calculating." He nodded with what looked like approval. "But now they're destroyed."

"Not all of them." I watched his expression carefully. "I have another sample. Stored elsewhere."

His eyes narrowed fractionally—the only indication that this information affected him. "You're thorough."

"I'm a survivor."

We fell silent, assessing each other across the table. Outside, a distant siren wailed, then faded. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the strange détente between us.

"We should move locations by morning," I finally said. "Those men at the hospital know I worked there. They'll be looking."

"Agreed." Dante stood and removed his shirt, revealing a torso marked with old scars and new bruises from where I'd tested various injection sites. Despite six months of supposed bed rest, his muscles were defined and strong. He'd clearly been exercising when no one was watching.

I tried not to stare. "There's a shower through there. I'll take first watch."

As he disappeared into the bathroom, I quickly checked my prosthetic, adjusting the fit and ensuring my remaining weapons were accessible. Then I retrieved a small pill case from my bag, selecting two innocent-looking capsules.

When Dante emerged twenty minutes later, hair damp and wearing only the pants from his stolen uniform, I had two cups of instant coffee waiting.

"Black, no sugar," I said, pushing one toward him. "You never took sugar in the hospital."

"You noticed." He accepted the cup, bringing it to his lips but not drinking yet. "I've been wondering... why a nurse? You clearly have other skills. Why not just assassinate me?"

"I needed information first," I replied. "About Marina, about your organization. And death would have been too merciful."

He nodded as if this made perfect sense. "Your dedication is impressive."

"I'm nothing if not patient."

We sat in the dim light of the apartment, two killers sharing coffee like it was the most normal thing in the world. I sipped mine first, maintaining eye contact. He mirrored my action, taking a careful drink.

"It's not poisoned," I said, reading his thoughts.

"I didn't think it was." But the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested otherwise.

I smiled. "Liar."

"Professional hazard." He took another sip. "So what's your plan now, Luna? Your revenge plot is compromised. The embryos are mostly destroyed. And the men who attacked us will be hunting both of us."

"First, we find out who sent those men. Then we find what happened to Marina."

"And after that?" he asked. "Back to trying to kill each other?"

I leaned forward, our faces close enough that I could feel his breath. "One thing at a time, Dante."

Something unspoken passed between us—a recognition, perhaps, of the strange intimacy that had formed during the months I'd cared for his supposedly comatose body. I knew the rhythm of his breathing, the texture of his skin, the way his pulse quickened when I came close—details usually reserved for lovers.

He caught my wrist suddenly, his grip firm but not painful. "The coffee. What did you put in it?"

I smiled innocently. "Just a mild sedative. Nothing lethal."

"Why?"

"Because I need to go out, and I don't trust you enough to leave you conscious in my safe house."

Instead of looking angry, he seemed amused. "And what makes you think I didn't anticipate this?"

Before I could respond, a wave of dizziness hit me. I looked down at my own cup in confusion, then back at his smirking face.

"You switched the cups," I realized, my voice already slurring.

"Professional hazard," he repeated, catching me as I slumped forward.

The last thing I saw before consciousness faded was Dante's face close to mine, his eyes dark with something that wasn't quite triumph and wasn't quite admiration, but somewhere dangerously in between.

"Sleep well, Viper," he whispered. "We have a long day of hunting tomorrow."

As darkness claimed me, I felt his lips brush against my forehead in what could have been a threat or a promise. With Dante Moretti, I was beginning to understand, the line between the two was vanishingly thin.