The amber vial remained untouched on the silver tray, but the heavy tension in the room lingered long after Vincent Russo forced a cold smile and excused himself.

As soon as the heavy oak door clicked shut, I dropped to my knees, pulling Lila into a tight, fierce embrace.

“You shouldn't have done that, sweetie,” I whispered into her hair, my voice shaking. “That man is dangerous. He could have hurt you.”

Lila pulled back, signing rapidly with small, determined movements: Bad man. His hands smell like bitter almonds. Just like the sick man’s medicine.

Bitter almonds.

The classic signature of cyanide-based metabolic inhibitors. The very compound destroying Damian’s heart.

An hour later, when the mansion had plunged into the heavy, deceptive quiet of midnight, a soft knock echoed at our private connecting door.

I opened it a crack. Damian stood there, leaning heavily against the doorframe. He looked exhausted, his skin gray under the dim hallway sconces, but his eyes burned with fierce clarity.

“Did he come?” Damian asked, his voice a low gravel rasp.

“Vincent brought the afternoon tonic,” I whispered, stepping aside to let him in. “Lila reacted immediately. She signed that he smelled like bitter almonds.”

Damian closed his eyes for a long moment, a muscle ticking violently along his jawline. The betrayal clearly cut deeper than any physical wound. Vincent Russo had been his shield-brother, a man who had taken bullets for him during the dock wars of '18.

“Vincent has been skimming from the shipping ports for months,” Damian said bitterly, walking slowly over to the sofa and sitting down with a heavy sigh. “I suspected embezzlement. I suspected ambition. But poisoning my heart so he could take over the board before the annual syndicate summit... that requires a coldness even I didn't think he possessed.”

“We have to go to the police,” I urged, stepping closer. “Or gather the remaining loyal guards and lock him out.”

“The police in Baltimore won't touch the Volkov family without federal warrants, and federal warrants take weeks,” Damian shook his head slowly. “And as for the guards—Vincent has spent the last year planting his own men in our security detail. If I move too soon without absolute, undeniable proof, half the mansion will turn on us before dawn.”

He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch.

“Which means we play his game until the summit tomorrow night,” Damian said quietly. “Vincent plans to announce my ‘tragic passing’ from natural heart failure during the gala banquet, claiming my final medical directives left him in charge of the syndicate.”

“And what happens to us?” I asked, a cold shiver running down my spine.

Damian looked over at Lila, who had fallen asleep curled up on the rug, her cloth rabbit clutched tightly in her arms. A rare, profoundly tender softening crossed his harsh features.

“I swore an oath long ago that anyone who stood by me in the fire would be protected by my blood,” Damian said softly, standing up and stepping close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his broad frame. “I won't let him touch either of you, Elena. You have my word as a Volkov.”

For the first time since I stepped inside Grayhaven House, the fear inside my chest didn't feel paralyzing. It felt like fuel.

“Then we don't wait for him to make his move,” I said, my voice steady and resolute. “We set a trap of our own.”