THE MAFIA BOSS'S COUSIN MOCKED A POOR MAID FOR QUESTIONING TWELVE EXPENSIVE DOCTORS—BUT WHEN SHE MENTIONED FOXGLOVE AND HIS STRANGE YELLOW VISION, THEIR EXPRESSIONS CHANGED.

Carlo Costa covered his mouth as if he could push the sentence back inside it. Nobody moved. Even the machines beside Matteo's bed seemed suddenly louder, their steady electronic notes marking the distance between the truth and what we had believed only minutes earlier.

“You weren't supposed to survive this long,” Enzo repeated. He spoke softly, which somehow made the words worse. “Explain that.”

Carlo looked at his cousin, then at the twelve doctors, then at me. I was still on my knees, my palms flat against the carpet. My entire body hurt from trembling.

“I meant the illness,” Carlo said finally. “The doctors told us he was dying. I meant he wasn't expected to survive the illness.”

“You said 'supposed to,'” Dr. Keller replied. “That is a very different statement.”

Carlo straightened his jacket. “I don't answer to the hired help.”

“Neither does she,” Matteo whispered.

Everyone turned toward the bed. Matteo's face had almost no color, but his eyes had found me. “Get Nia off the floor.”

Enzo offered me a hand. I hesitated, because the last time he had spoken my name, he'd ordered me onto my knees. Then I accepted. My legs barely supported me.

“I'm sorry,” Enzo said under his breath.

I wanted to tell him an apology couldn't undo what it felt like to be accused before a room full of people who had already decided I was guilty. Instead I said, “Please don't let anyone take the tin away.”

Dr. Keller set the sealed container on an empty tray. “Nothing leaves this room without documentation. And no one gives Matteo any food, drink, or medication that hasn't been independently checked.”

Carlo laughed, too loudly. “So now a maid dictates medical policy?”

“No,” Keller said. “A patient safety concern dictates medical policy.”

Marco, the estate's security director, arrived with two officers. Enzo pointed at Carlo. “He stays here until the police arrive.”

Carlo's expression sharpened. “You'd humiliate family over the word of a servant?”

Matteo tried to push himself upright. “Family,” he rasped, “doesn't arrange for my death.”

For one horrible moment I thought the effort would stop his heart. The monitor's rhythm changed and Keller hurried to the bed. He told Matteo to lie still, spoke calmly to the nurses, and asked the others to leave enough space for treatment. I backed toward the doorway, hugging my torn pocket against my hip.

“Not you,” Matteo said to me. “Stay where I can see you.”

The words nearly broke me. I'd spent months learning how to disappear in that house. Now the man everyone feared was asking me to remain visible.

Police arrived just before dusk. Detective Mara Quinn had tired gray eyes and a way of listening that made people supply the silence themselves. She separated Carlo from the others, requested the original corridor video, and arranged for the tin and tea service to be logged as evidence. She didn't announce that poison had been found. She didn't promise an arrest before the laboratory results came back. I appreciated that more than I expected.

When she interviewed me in the small breakfast room, she closed the door and put a glass of water within reach. “Start with what you personally witnessed,” she said. “Not what you think happened.”

I told her about the yellow halos, the afternoon tea, my grandmother's journal, Carlo's warning, and the cart that had been moved. I told her the exact words Carlo had spoken in Matteo's bedroom. The detective wrote steadily.

“Why didn't you tell another person?” she asked.

“I tried telling Dr. Keller. Carlo heard. After that, I thought if I kept my head down, I could find a way to keep Mr. Costa safe.”

“And who was keeping you safe?”

I stared at my hands. No one had asked me that question in the entire time I'd lived at the estate.

“My grandmother used to,” I answered. “Before she died.”

Quinn leaned back. “You did the right thing reporting a concern. But don't go collecting evidence yourself. People who frame an employee for a serious crime may escalate when that employee survives the accusation.”

I nodded. She asked for my grandmother's journal so specialists could understand why I'd raised the possibility of a plant-derived substance, but she made clear that a journal couldn't establish what was in the tea. The distinction mattered. One guess was not proof, no matter how frighteningly it fit the symptoms.

Outside, the evening sun gilded the estate's iron gates. A news van was already parked across the road. Someone had leaked the story. The house's stone façade looked unchanged, but everything inside it had shifted.

Enzo found me in the breakfast room after the detective left. He brought a clean sweater and an envelope. “The sweater is from the laundry room. The envelope is your wages through the end of the month.”

My breath caught. “Am I fired?”

“No. I'm offering paid leave while we work out somewhere safe for you to stay.”

“Somewhere safe?”

He lowered his gaze. “Carlo knows where you live. He had access to every employee file.”

My first thought was my mother's old apartment and the collectors still calling about her medical debt. I had no family left to hide with. “I can't afford a hotel.”

“You won't have to.”

“That isn't the same as being free to say no,” I replied before I could stop myself.

Enzo looked genuinely startled. Then he nodded. “You're right. You can decline any arrangement. Detective Quinn can suggest victim-support services without relying on us.”

That was the first sensible thing anyone had offered me all day.

I sat down again. “Why did Carlo need Matteo dead? The succession papers?”

Enzo didn't answer immediately. “Matteo's father left control of Costa Holdings with a condition. If Matteo became permanently unable to manage his affairs, the voting authority would pass to a family council.”

“And Carlo sits on that council?”

“He chairs it.”

A chill ran through me. “So someone didn't even need him to die. They just needed everybody to believe he couldn't decide anything.”

Enzo looked toward the closed door. “Yes. And that's what frightens me.”

Later that evening, I was permitted a brief visit with Matteo. The room smelled of antiseptic and fresh linen. Nurses had replaced the antique silver tea service with sealed hospital supplies. The medical team was arranging a transfer to a facility outside the family's control.

Matteo's eyelids fluttered when I approached. “Nia,” he murmured. “Your grandmother. Did she teach you all that?”

“She taught me to pay attention. She also taught me that being worried doesn't mean being certain.”

His mouth twitched. “A better lesson than most of the men around me learned.”

I set his untouched reading glasses within reach. “I didn't save you, sir. The doctors still have work to do.”

“You told them where to look when no one else would.”

He lifted one weak finger toward the carved cabinet opposite his bed. “There is a blue ledger inside. Enzo must get it before Carlo's people do.”

“Then tell him,” I said.

Matteo's eyes filled with sudden fear. “I tried. Three days ago, I told a man I trusted. Now that man is missing.”

The monitor beeped faster. A nurse stepped forward, and I prepared to leave. Matteo caught my sleeve with astonishing strength.

“Don't trust the family lawyer,” he whispered. “The signature on the succession amendment isn't mine.”

I stopped. “Which lawyer?”

His lips moved once more.

“Harold Vane.”

Behind me, someone quietly closed the bedroom door. I turned to find a man in a charcoal overcoat standing where the guards had been a moment earlier. Silver hair. Polished shoes. A leather briefcase in his hand.

“I hear my name,” he said pleasantly. “I hope I'm not interrupting.”

The following morning, the housekeeping staff gathered near the laundry room. I had never seen them speak openly about what happened in Matteo's bedroom. Mrs. Reyes kept twisting the edge of her apron. Anton the cook stared at his shoes. Lydia finally said, “We all watched them accuse you. I wanted to speak, but Carlo was standing beside the door.” I told them I understood why they were frightened, though understanding did not make the silence harmless. We discussed how staff could contact the police or a hospital advocate when they believed somebody faced immediate danger. There was no quick reconciliation. But that conversation was the first time the people who kept the estate running began to see themselves as entitled to ask for safety rather than permission to be safe. When I left, Mrs. Reyes pressed a paper bag containing two rolls into my hands. “You haven't had breakfast,” she said. I laughed and cried at the same time. I had nearly forgotten what it felt like for someone to notice a simple need without turning it into a debt.