Chapter 9 - The Blood on the Laboratory Floor-9
The sound was shockingly quiet—like a heavy book dropping onto a carpeted floor.
Tom stumbled backward, his eyes wide with sudden, uncomprehending shock. The white lab printout fluttered from his trembling fingers, spinning slowly through the damp air before landing face-down in a puddle of oily water. A dark, crimson stain bloomed rapidly across the front of his light blue medical scrubs, spreading outward like an angry flower. He grabbed the edge of the steel doorframe, his fingers slipping helplessly against the metal, before collapsing sideways onto the cold concrete of the loading dock.
"NO!" Carla shrieked, her voice tearing raw from her throat as she fought violently against the guard holding her arms. "TOM! NO!"
"Shut her up," Dean commanded coldly, not even bothering to look down at the dying man.
One of the guards slammed the heavy butt of his pistol against the side of Carla’s head. The world instantly exploded into a blinding flash of white light, followed by a roaring waterfall of sound, and then—absolute, merciful darkness. She slumped forward, unconscious, her body hitting the wet concrete just feet away from her cousin.
Dean walked over, casually nudging the fluttering lab printout with the toe of his shoe. He bent down, picked it up off the wet pavement, and glanced at the bold header printed across the top: TOXICOLOGY SCREENING – COMPOUND SYNTH-9 (LUMBAR NEURO-INHIBITOR).
A dark, humorless chuckle escaped Dean’s lips. He folded the paper neatly and slid it into his breast pocket.
"Amateurs," Dean muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Did you really think a low-level hospital lab could outsmart a twelve-year operation?"
He pulled out his encrypted satellite phone and dialed a pre-programmed number. It picked up on the first ring.
"Clean up crew to St. Jude Memorial Hospital loading bay, Sector Four," Dean ordered crisply into the receiver. "And make sure the van is towed to the East River chop shop before sunrise. Leave no trace."
"What about the housekeeper?" the voice on the other end asked.
Dean paused, looking down at Carla’s limp, unconscious body crumpled against the cold concrete. A calculating, ruthless light danced in his gray eyes. "Bring her back to the estate. Lock her in the basement holding cell. We'll use her as leverage to ensure the little girl stays quiet until the wedding and the asset transfer are legally finalized next week. After that... everyone takes a permanent vacation."
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"Understood, Mr. Foster."
The call disconnected with a sharp click. Within minutes, a second unmarked black van backed into the loading bay, the doors sliding open to swallow both Carla’s unconscious body and Tom’s remains with terrifying efficiency. The Rinaldi empire was built on blood, silence, and absolute control, and Dean Foster was determined to ensure nothing—not even a housekeeper and her three-year-old daughter—would stand in his way. But he had severely underestimated one crucial factor: children do not forget, and Massimo Rinaldi was already waking up.
