Chapter 2 - THE PILLS IN CELESTE’S HANDBAG
Celeste recovered quickly.
She always did.
“Valentina called me.”
Her voice remained calm.
“She said the pills looked wrong.”
Dante looked toward his mother.
“Ma?”
Valentina was gripping the edge of the sofa.
“I called Serena.”
Celeste smiled gently.
“You called me, Valentina.”
“No.”
“You may not remember.”
There it was.
The phrase.
Not:
Maybe.
Not:
Are you sure?
A correction presented as compassion.
I felt cold.
Valentina looked toward me.
“I called you.”
“You did.”
Celeste’s eyes sharpened.
Dante noticed.
“Serena.”
“Yes?”
“Did she call?”
I showed my phone.
Missed call from Valentina.
11:38 p.m.
Celeste’s smile disappeared.
Dante held out his hand.
“The pill organizer.”
Celeste hesitated.
Then gave it to him.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing yet.”
That was different.
Old Dante would have decided.
This Dante called the doctor again.
Called an independent nurse.
Called his attorney.
No threats.
No guns.
Good.
The nurse examined Valentina’s medications.
Three pills in the organizer did not belong to her.
One was a mild sedative prescribed under another patient’s name.
Another could worsen dizziness.
The third was harmless by itself but unnecessary.
“Could this happen accidentally?” Dante asked.
“Once?”
The nurse hesitated.
“Possibly.”
“Three different tablets across several days?”
“No.”
Celeste folded her arms.
“Then one of the staff is responsible.”
The words landed.
Patricia looked horrified.
I said nothing.
Dante did.
“Why staff?”
“Who else handles medication?”
“Serena.”
“Patricia.”
“The nurses.”
Then Celeste added:
“And me occasionally, apparently.”
Interesting.
She included herself because excluding herself would look worse.
The next morning, Dante ordered all medication removed from household access.
Locked cabinet.
Nurse-controlled.
Daily signatures.
Valentina hated it.
“I am not a prisoner.”
“No.”
Dante sat beside her.
“But somebody used your pills against you.”
That was the first time he said it aloud.
Used against you.
Valentina went quiet.
Then:
“Celeste wants my trust.”
Dante looked at her.
“What?”
“She keeps asking about it.”
Celeste was not in the room.
Good.
Valentina continued.
“She thinks I don't know.”
“What trust?”
“Your father’s.”
Dante’s father had left Valentina control of a substantial family trust holding voting shares in Moretti Hotels and the family foundation.
If Valentina became legally incapacitated, temporary voting authority would pass to—
Dante frowned.
He knew before she said it.
“The designated successor trustee.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Valentina looked angry.
“Celeste.”
The room became silent.
I felt my stomach drop.
Dante stood.
“When did you name her?”
“Three years ago.”
“Why?”
“Because you said you didn't want it.”
He remembered.
I could see it.
Years earlier, Dante had apparently refused another layer of family control.
Celeste had seemed stable.
Educated.
Trusted.
Good choice.
At the time.
Now the wrong medication suddenly had financial context.
But context is not proof.
Dante knew that too.
He brought in outside counsel.
Independent physician.
Forensic accountant.
Nobody from the Moretti inner circle.
That annoyed several men.
Excellent.
Then something else happened.
The doctor compared Valentina’s recent lab results.
One sedative appeared in her blood at least six weeks earlier.
Long before the pill organizer mix-up we discovered.
Someone had been doing this repeatedly.
The penthouse medication logs showed only one unusual pattern.
On nights when Valentina’s confusion worsened, her evening tea had often been delivered by Celeste.
Not always.
Sometimes staff.
But staff said Celeste had personally prepared the tray.
Dante asked security to pull kitchen footage.
Three dates missing.
“Missing?”
He stared at the security chief.
“System maintenance.”
“Authorized by whom?”
Silence.
Then:
“Ms. Bowmont requested privacy during family evenings.”
Dante’s expression changed.
“She can disable my cameras?”
“Only kitchen interior.”
“She said Valentina disliked being recorded.”
Reasonable on its face.
Terrible in context.
Then I remembered something.
The blue tea tin.
Celeste always used one particular chamomile blend for Valentina.
Imported.
I went to the pantry.
Gone.
Every other tea remained.
Only that tin had disappeared.
I checked trash.
Nothing.
Then Patricia said:
“Celeste left with a large handbag last night.”
Security logs showed Celeste exiting the penthouse at 12:32 a.m.
Her bag was never searched.
Of course not.
She was family-adjacent.
Untouchable.
Dante sat in silence after hearing that.
Then ordered:
“Nobody touches her belongings.”
I looked at him.
He noticed.
“Court order.”
He clarified.
“We do this properly.”
Good.
Celeste returned that afternoon.
She was furious.
“You are investigating me?”
Dante answered:
“I am investigating what happened to my mother.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
“Dante, after four years?”
“What does four years prove?”
“That you know me.”
He looked at her.
“Apparently not enough.”
Celeste’s eyes filled.
Maybe real.
Maybe not.
Then she turned toward me.
“This started with her.”
There it was.
I stayed quiet.
Celeste continued.
“She has been putting ideas in Valentina’s head for months.”
Dante’s face hardened.
“Careful.”
“Why?”
“Because she's staff?”
“No.”
His voice became colder.
“Because you are redirecting instead of answering.”
Celeste laughed bitterly.
“And what exactly is Serena to you now?”
Dangerous question.
Not because of romance.
Because hierarchy changes how accusation sounds.
Dante looked at me.
Then back at Celeste.
“She is the person who noticed my mother was being drugged.”
Nothing more.
Good.
Celeste had no answer.
Later that night, the warrant came through for review of Celeste’s belongings stored at the penthouse.
Her garment closet.
Guest office.
Bathroom cabinet.
One handbag remained.
Inside:
Receipts.
Lipstick.
Two phones.
And three individually wrapped tablets matching the sedative found in Valentina’s blood.
No one spoke.
Celeste’s attorney immediately claimed they were for her own insomnia.
Prescription records?
None.
Then investigators found another item.
A folded photocopy.
Valentina’s trust agreement.
The section dealing with incapacity highlighted.
At the bottom, handwritten:
Need two physicians. Cognitive decline documentation must predate transfer.
Dante stared at the page.
Then at Celeste.
She had just walked into the room with her attorney.
His hand moved toward the inside of his jacket.
I saw it.
So did everyone else.
“Dante.”
My voice.
He stopped.
Barely.
Celeste went pale.
Dante looked at me.
Then deliberately removed his hand.
No gun.
He turned to his security chief.
“Call the police.”
Celeste’s face changed from fear to disbelief.
“Police?”
Dante looked at her.
“Yes.”
Not private punishment.
Not a basement.
Not one of his men.
Police.
May you like
Because if Valentina had been poisoned for control of a trust—
the truth needed to survive more than Dante’s anger.
