Chapter 52 Chapter 51

Chapter 52 Chapter 51
My jaw tightened. I held back the urge to wipe that smile off his face with a punch.
"So, deal closed?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

"Of course. You don’t even have to ask twice," he said, laughing as he poured himself another drink.

I stayed silent for a moment, watching the reflection of the glass in his hand.
"I’ve been thinking… maybe a peace agreement between us would be good."

Viktor frowned, hand to his chin, thoughtful.
"A peace agreement?" he repeated, as if savoring the words. "That’s… unexpected coming from you, Moretti."

"I know," I replied. "But think about it — I’ve got weapons, connections with judges and cops. If you ever needed something, I could help."

"Interesting… maybe a peace deal would be the right move." Viktor adjusted the glass in his hand, pretending to be calm.

"Since you agree, why don’t we toast to peace?" I lifted the bag.

Viktor raised an eyebrow. "What did you bring?" he asked curiously. I placed the bag on the table, right in front of him.

He didn’t wait long — opened the bag, grabbed the Macallan box. His eyes gleamed; a cynical smile spread across his face. He lifted the box like a trophy and laughed loudly, drawing everyone’s attention.
"Look at this," he said mockingly, "a Macallan! Trying to buy me off, are you? Congratulations, you succeeded."

Viktor pulled out several small glasses, scattering them across the table, and opened the bottle with lazy precision. He closed his eyes, inhaled the scent as if savoring every note, and poured the amber liquid into the glasses.

He handed me the first glass. I held it by the rim, feeling the warm glass. The other men stood up, alert.
"To peace," Viktor said, raising his glass, his eyes locked on mine.

I drank. The liquid burned down my throat, rising to my chest. I swallowed it all at once and set the glass down with a dry thud, my face unmoving. I could still feel the heat traveling down my throat, my eyes fixed on his.

The others followed suit, inhaling the aroma slowly, smiling in satisfaction with each sip. Some whispered among themselves, impressed.

"You have good taste in liquor, Don Moretti," Viktor said, stroking the bottle with his thumb, staring straight at me.

"A Macallan is always welcome."

He smiled, pleased, and sank back into his chair.
I had been sitting there for an hour, watching those pathetic men drink like it was the last thing they would ever do. In fact, it would be — I had put enough poison in the bottle. The test would show only alcohol intoxication.
I looked at my hand and saw it tremble. I closed my fist hard, trying to stop the shake. The metallic taste was already rising in my throat; the poison was starting to take effect.
Viktor laughed, raising his glass like a king. Poor fool. At any moment his crown would crack.
I stood up slowly. Viktor coughed — the cough sounding strangely loud; my eyes widened. I straightened my jacket with a curt motion.
"Now that we’ve toasted, I have unfinished business," I said, my voice controlled.
He coughed again, harder. Around me the men began to grow pale, sweating, moving awkwardly. Some clung to the table, others vomited. The effect hit them all at once.
I left the room without hurry and closed the door behind me. The corridor seemed long; sweat ran down the back of my neck. I walked to the gate where the guards stood and passed them without looking. Each step felt heavier.
On the way to the car, a dizziness exploded in my head. Blood began to seep from the corner of my mouth — hot, metallic tasting. My vision blurred; the outlines of cars and trees lost sharpness. My heart raced as if it wanted to leap out of my throat.
My legs failed. I fell onto the lawn; the world spun. I heard distant voices — Salvatori, Enzo — coming quickly. They lifted me roughly. My legs dragged on the ground; my knees felt like wax. They laid me down in the back seat of the car.
The vehicle took off at high speed. I tried to focus my vision, but everything spun. The metallic taste dominated my mouth; my breathing came shallow, far too short. For a second, I could only think of one person: Chloe. Her face appeared clearly in my head.
I smiled — a weak smile, from someone who admits he would do it all again — and then I passed out.

I look in the rearview and see Dominic unconscious, his body slumped in the back seat. A bead of sweat runs down the side of my face, and my heart hammers in my chest. I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles go white and press the accelerator even further.
"Is he going to die?" Enzo’s voice comes out trembling, almost a whisper.
"I don’t know… I hope not," I say, keeping my eyes on the road.
"We should have stopped him from doing that shit."
"Of course. And you were going to tell him that?" I glare at Enzo for a second. "Don wouldn’t have listened to anyone."
"And how do you know? Have you become an expert in suicide?"
"I don’t know, Enzo!" I explode, my voice full of desperation.
The car brakes sharply as we arrive at the hospital. The sound of tires burning on asphalt echoes through the parking lot.
Enzo runs out, shouting:
"Emergency! We need help here!"
I open the back door and pull Dominic by the shoulders. His body is heavy, cold — unresponsive.
"Faster, Salvatori!" Enzo yells, turning around.
"I’m going as fast as I can!" I reply, feeling the engine roar under the hood.
The road seems endless. The sound of tires cutting the asphalt and the drone of the engine are all that can be heard inside the car.
Two nurses run toward us with a stretcher.
"What happened to him?" one asks, already making space.
"Poisoning!" Enzo responds, out of breath.
They lay him on the stretcher, attaching monitors as they rush him inside. We follow right behind, the wheels of the stretcher echoing down the white corridors.
One of the nurses shouts something about his heart rate being very low, and my chest tightens. I stand frozen for a moment, watching through the doorway as they try to stabilize him.