Page 124 of Secret Heir

I swear violently. “Then how⁠—”

“Daniel’s plate was contaminated. Specifically his plate. No one else’s.” Nikolai’s jaw is tight, a muscle ticking near his temple. “Someone coated the ceramic with a contact poison that activated when it mixed with saliva and stomach acid. It’s nearly undetectable without very specific testing protocols.”

I release Nikolai and step back. My hands are shaking. “Who had access to the plates?”

“Kitchen staff. Service staff. Guards who patrol the kitchen area. Security personnel who monitor the food preparation.” His face darkens. “Too many people. Even with the vetting and the security protocols, there were too many potential points of entry.”

I start to pace, my mind racing. “What kind of poison?”

“The lab is still analyzing samples from Daniel’s blood work. But based on the symptoms and the speed of action, Dr. Petrov thinks it’s a military-grade neurotoxin. Possibly VX or something similar. The same class of compounds Corsican assassins have used in the past.”

I freeze. Alexander.

Alexander got to my son in Nikolai’s fortress. In the place we thought was impenetrable.

“Every staff member is being detained and questioned as we speak,” Nikolai says. “I’ve locked down the entire compound. Nothing goes in or out until we find who did this.”

“I want to do the questioning,” I tell Nikolai harshly. “Personally.”

Nikolai frowns. “Maksim⁠—”

“That’s my son in there and hooked up to machines!” I blow up at Nikolai. “My son is maybe dying or brain-damaged beyond repair!” I’m in Nikolai’s face now and my brother doesn’t flinch at my rage. “I want to look the person who did this in the eye before I kill them. That is non fucking negotiable.”

Nikolai studies me for a long moment. Then he nods slowly. “Basement interrogation rooms. Two hours. We’ll have the primary suspects ready.”

I shake my head, my whole body tingling with the force of my anger. “All of them,” I rasp. “I want to see all of them.”

My brother raises an eyebrow. “It’s forty-three people.”

“Then it’ll be a long night.” I turn back toward Daniel’s room. “Get them ready. I’ll be there in two hours.”

I go back inside to my son’s bedside and resume holding his small hand. I pray to the god of my childhood, the one I gave up when I was old enough to understand this was all bullshit.

I’m back to making promises I intend to keep.

Someone is going to die for this.

And I’m going to make it hurt.

The interrogation takes twelve hours.

Nikolai has them set up in the basement, which is a series of rooms that were built during Prohibition for storing illegal liquor but have since been converted into something far less innocent. They’re soundproofed and reinforced with drains in the floor and walls that can be hosed down.

I question every single person who had access to the kitchen in the past week and I’m not gentle about it.

My ribs are agony and my head is pounding, but my son is in a coma. I’m past caring about rules or restraint or keeping up appearances.

The first fifteen are terrified and crying, swearing they had nothing to do with it. I believe them—I can see the genuine horror in their eyes when they realize what happened. The shock that someone would poison a child.

But one of them is different.

Artem Abaza. He’s a kitchen assistant and twenty-eight years old. He’s been working at the compound for three years. His background checks came back clean and his references checked out. He’s supposedly loyal.

When I walk into his interrogation room, he’s already sweating, but it’s not the nervous sweat of someone who’s scared of being questioned. No, this is the guilty sweat of someone who knows he’s caught.

He’s sitting in a metal chair in the center of the room, his hands zip tied to the armrests. Two of Nikolai’s most trusted guards stand behind him—Dmitri and Pavel, both men who’ve been with the family for over a decade and know how to keep their mouths shut. Nikolai observes from behind me.

The room is bare concrete with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows. There’s a drain in the center of the floor and tools are arranged on a metal table against the wall.