Page 97 of The Serpent's Bride
I leaned back in the chair casually. “Because you just poisoned yourself.”
Silence. Complete silence. Ventura stared at me. Then laughed nervously. “What?”
“The bourbon,” I clarified. “You really should stop accepting drinks from men called The Serpent.”
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered violently across the floor. Sergio grinned.
Ventura lurched halfway out of his chair. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” I cocked my head to the side. Panic exploded across his face. His breathing turned ragged as he clawed at his throat.
“There’s no point trying to vomit it up,” I said mildly. “It’s already in your bloodstream.”
“You fucking psycho-” Ventura choked out.
“The next week,” I continued calmly, “is going to be extraordinarily unpleasant for you.”
Ventura stumbled backward into the desk. Sweat poured down his face now.
“You’ll start with stomach pain first. Then muscle failure. Fever. Hallucinations.” I tilted my head slightly. “Eventually your organs begin shutting down one by one.”
“T-That’s impossible-” he stuttered.
“No,” I corrected softly. “What’s impossible is surviving it without me.”
Sergio crossed his arms, watching the breakdown unfold with visible enjoyment. Ventura’s breathing turned sharp and panicked. “You’re bluffing.”
I smiled slowly. Right on cue, Ventura doubled over with a violent gasp, clutching his stomach. The poison always worked fast psychologically once fear took hold. Beautiful thing, panic.
“You bastard,” he choked. I stood slowly from the chair. Towering over him.
“You have two choices now,” I said quietly. “Confess what you told Chiara before the wedding.” I crouched slightly in front of him while he shook against the desk. “Or spend the next seven days begging God to let you die before the pain truly starts.”
Ventura broke faster than I expected. Not fully. Not enough. But fear cracked him open just enough for me to see it.
“She misunderstood,” he gasped, clutching the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. “I never said anything to hurt her.”
I stared at him. Unimpressed.
“What exactly,” I said softly, “did you tell my wife before the wedding?”
Ventura’s eyes darted wildly between me and Sergio.
“Nothing,” he insisted. “I told Chiara nothing.”
Lie. The panic rolling off him thickened the air in the study. Sergio leaned lazily against the wall watching the breakdown with visible amusement while Ventura sweated through his expensive suit.
I crouched slowly in front of him. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing,” he managed.
“You expect me to believe she walked down the aisle terrified of me for no reason?” I hissed.
“She’s emotional,” he snapped too quickly. “Sensitive. Always has been.”
Rage slid cold and sharp beneath my skin.
“She cried in my bed,” I said quietly. Ventura froze.
