The Gilded Cage Of Crimson
In front of her sat an ancient, terracotta pot containing a lush, dark green plant with dull purple, bell-shaped flowers and glossy black berries that looked like polished obsidian.
"Do you know what this is, Mr. Rossi?" Isabella asked. Her voice was a soft, velvety purr that seemed to blend into the gentle patter of condensation dripping from the glass ceiling.
"Belladonna," Dante replied flatly, his predatory eyes scanning the rows of hanging ferns and dense foliage behind her, checking for blind spots. "Deadly nightshade. Atropa belladonna, if you prefer the Latin. It’s an odd choice for a hobby, Miss Valeriano."
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