Chapter 5 - The Poisoned Betrayal
Two weeks passed. Under Waverly’s care, the twins defied Dr. Yates's grim prognosis. They weren't cured, but their appetites returned, their fevers stabilized, and for the first time in months, the sound of faint, childish giggles echoed through the mansion's halls as Waverly read them stories from her paperback books.
But peace was a luxury a mafia boss could never keep for long.
One evening, while Waverly was in the kitchen preparing a specific herbal broth for the children, she noticed something unusual. One of the private family chefs, a man named Marcus who had worked for the Mercers for five years, was standing near the secure pantry, nervously adjusting a small vial of clear liquid.
Waverly stepped back into the shadows, her instincts instantly screaming. She watched as Marcus carefully added three drops of the clear liquid into the organic milk container meant for the twins' evening smoothies.
"Marcus," Waverly said quietly, stepping into the light.
The chef jumped, nearly dropping the container. His face turned a sickly shade of white. "Miss Dunn! You... you startled me. I was just finishing up the children's evening meal."
"What did you put in the milk?" she asked, her voice dropping into that dangerously calm register.
"Nothing! It's just a vitamin supplement Dr. Yates left behind before he departed," Marcus stammered, backing away toward the kitchen exit.
Waverly didn't hesitate. She grabbed the milk container and ran straight out of the kitchen toward the medical wing. But before she could reach the doors, Marcus tackled her from behind, slamming her against the marble wall. The milk container shattered across the floor, the liquid spilling everywhere.
"You should have minded your own business, girl," Marcus hissed, pulling a concealed knife from his apron. "The Moretti family paid me two million dollars to ensure those kids never wake up. Lawson Mercer needs to be broken completely so we can take over the North Side."
Waverly wrestled against his grip, her fingers scratching at his face. "They are five years old!" she screamed. "They are children!"
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Before Marcus could bring the knife down, the heavy sound of a gunshot echoed through the corridor. Marcus stiffened, his eyes rolling back as he slumped onto the floor, a single bullet wound in his shoulder.
Lawson stood at the end of the hall, his smoking gun pointed at the ceiling, his face an expression of pure, unadulterated demonic rage. Behind him, Prescott and four guards swarmed the kitchen, pinning Marcus to the ground.
