“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Massimo sounds triumphant, and she says sadly, “They were killed in a car accident when she was one year old and the last I heard she was put up for adoption.”
I am so fearful right now because Massimo has turned so red it looks as if his blood is about to boil over and he releases her and pushes her back in her seat. Then he paces across to the window, looking as if he’s deep in thought.
For a moment I stare at Iris Young, and she returns it with a fearful one of her own and I’m guessing we are thinking the same thing right now. She is about to experience the extent of his anger, and there is absolutely nothing either of us can do about that.
The seconds tick by and then Massimo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small metal box. I watch intently as he removes the lid and takes out a syringe, filling it with liquid from a phial nestling beside it.
I hitch my breath and stare at Iris with fear, but she merely looks resigned to whatever he has planned.
He moves back before her and drops to his knees and then a low wail shatters the silence. He sounds like a tortured animal hoping to be put out of its misery. Then he rests the syringe on the floor beside him before reaching for her and proceeds to hold her tenderly against his chest.
As my eyes rest on the loaded syringe, Baron’s words come back to me when he told me to wait for the opportune moment.
This could be it.
As Massimo loses himself in the moment, I could step forward and plunge the syringe deep into his neck. I could save us all because I’m guessing there’s nothing good about what’s inside that phial.
A brief second is all I have and as my limbs respond so do his and he reaches out and wraps his fingers around my only chance before I can even move, and I watch with all the pain of a lost opportunity as he drives the needle deep into the back of her neck.
He openly weeps as she convulses in his arms and he whispers, “I’m sorry, mama. I love you, always remember that.”
I’m shocked when he yells angrily, “Winter, sound the alarm! My mother is having a stroke.”
Springing to the alarm pull by her side, I pull it hard and hope that help arrives soon, and they can do something to save her and as the footsteps pound toward the door, Massimo coolly pockets the evidence as he holds his former nanny in his arms, crying as he begs her to hold on. As the room fills and they put into practice a well-rehearsed drill, Massimo watches keenly the entire time, holding my hand.
We wait until the ambulance arrives and the medics check her over. As they hook her up to various lines and move her limp, frail body to the stretcher, one of them says kindly, “Are you her son?”
Massimo nods. “Will she be ok?”
“I’m not sure. It looks like a stroke. We’ll know more when we get to the hospital. St Cedars, if you want to meet us there.”
“Of course.”
Massimo sounds every inch the concerned relative and as they whisk Iris Young away, we start walking slowly to the waiting car.
Once inside, Massimo leans back and says sadly, “Strokes are a terrible thing, Winter. The person could be locked inside their own body in a living hell. My poor mama, she will never be able to talk again. Never be able to spill my secrets and will be kept alive by tubes and drugs until I decide to pull the plug. Such a terrible end for a powerful woman, wouldn’t you agree?”
The ice chills my heart with every word he speaks, because Massimo’s revenge is a sadistic one.
As the car moves away, he sighs heavily. “Such a shame that I will be forced to re-home mama with us when this place shuts down when the murder investigations involving Mrs. Travers begin. Such a wicked woman dealing in death by being well paid to end her resident’s suffering for money. What a tragedy, wouldn’t you agree?”
I can only agree as we speed home, and all hope is left back at Cedar Heights. I am a fool if I think I can ever escape this despicable monster which is reinforced when he says brightly, “At least I will have my old friend Wesley to comfort me in my darkest hour. I’m afraid I have no further use of you for the time being, so you must return to the shelf. But stay strong, my dear, your day will come.”
My shelf, as he calls it, is a white painted cage set in one of his dungeons where I live until he decides to play with me. I am not often locked in there, only when he has something that gives him way more pleasure to occupy his time, and I’m guessing the unfortunate victim this time is Wesley Vasquez. For once, I’m glad to be off the hook because even locked in a cage in a damp prison is better than the fate awaiting Wesley Vasquez.