For nineteen months she was just his housekeeper, until she realized someone was slowly poisoning the most dangerous man in New Orleans.

The room exploded into stunned whispers.

"Emilio?" one of the older captains—a silver-haired man named Uncle Sal—exclaimed, standing up from his chair. "What is the meaning of this? Rafe told us you were on life support at the estate!"

"Rafe lied," Emilio said clearly, stepping to the head of the table opposite his brother.

He didn't sit down. He stood tall, leaning lightly on his silver cane, his dark eyes locking onto Rafe with terrifying weight.

"Emilio, you're sick," Rafe stammered, recovering his composure with a desperate, frantic push. "You're confused! The doctors said the autoimmune encephalitis causes severe paranoia and hallucinations—"

"Dr. Prentiss is currently fleeing toward the Mexican border in a rented sedan, Rafe," I spoke up, stepping forward from behind Marco, pulling the blue-bound renovation invoice and a sealed plastic bag containing the green plaster piece from my coat.

Rafe's eyes snapped to me, burning with pure malice. "Shut up, you miserable scrubwoman!"

"Let her speak!" Uncle Sal barked, slamming his palm on the table. "Who are you, young lady?"

"My name is Etta Malloy," I said, setting the items flat on the mahogany table in front of the syndicate captains. "For nineteen months, I cleaned Emilio's private wing. Three years ago, Rafe Corsaro authorized a specialized renovation of the master bedroom using copper acetoarsenite sealed behind synthetic lacquer, combined with a daily airborne solvent delivered via a mantel diffuser."

The six captains looked at the green plaster, then at the detailed chemical analysis report Marco had obtained from an independent lab in Baton Rouge at midnight.

"Arsenic poisoning," Emilio said, his voice dropping an octave into pure velvet thunder. "Slow, calculated, physical destruction designed to look like a degenerative neurological disease, allowing my loving brother to take legal control of the family empire while I suffocated in my own bed."

Rafe’s face turned from pale to blotchy red. He looked around the table, but none of the captains would meet his eyes. The older men—veterans of a hundred brutal underworld wars—looked at Rafe with disgust.

"This is bullshit!" Rafe screamed, reaching into his coat shoulder holster. "He's unfit! He's dying!"

Before Rafe could clear his leather holster, Marco's heavy .45 pistol was already out, the cold steel barrel pressed firmly against the side of Rafe's neck.

CLICK.