Chapter 3 - THE TASTE OF CYANIDE
The silence in the grand hall stretched so thin that the faint hiss of the dissolving rug sounded like a viper coiled beneath the banquet table. Griffin didn’t blink. His expression hardened into a terrifying mask of calm, the kind of stillness that seasoned killers recognized as the prelude to a slaughter.
Beside him, Celeste took half a step backward, her perfectly sculpted face suddenly pale beneath her designer foundation. "Griffin, darling, she’s insane. She’s an obsessed lunatic from the street who tried to ruin our engagement party. Have Marco put her in the alley."
Griffin didn't acknowledge Celeste. Instead, he made a microscopic flick of his left index finger.
From the shadows flanking the room, his head of security, Marco—a scarred veteran with shoulders like a bull—materialized instantly. Marco didn't ask questions; he knelt down beside the puddle, pulled a silver testing kit from his inner pocket, and dipped a small chemically treated strip into the champagne. The strip turned an immediate, violent shade of black.
Marco looked up at Griffin, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently. "Lethal dose, boss. Ingestion within five seconds means respiratory collapse within sixty."
The room inhaled as one. A terrified shudder ran through the assembled mob capos and corrupt politicians. An assassination attempt inside the Grand Royale ballroom was practically unheard of; Griffin Hales was supposed to be untouchable here.
Griffin slowly turned his head to look at Celeste. "You poured that flute yourself from my private reserve, didn't you, Celeste?"
"I—I took it from the waiter!" Celeste stammered, her voice pitching up into an octave of sheer panic. "Griffin, you know me! You love me! Why would I ever—I didn't pour it, I swear on my mother’s soul!"
"Your mother sold you to the highest bidder when you were sixteen," Griffin said, his voice terrifyingly devoid of emotion. "Her soul isn't worth the silver tray this girl just dropped."
Griffin stepped toward Fay. The red uniform dress she wore was faded at the seams, a hand-me-down from a temp agency that paid minimum wage under the table. She looked fragile enough to snap in half under the Chicago wind, but her chin remained tilted upward, defying the trembling in her knees.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Fay," she whispered, her throat dry. "Fay Lawson."
"Why did you do it, Fay?" Griffin asked, stepping so close she could feel the heat radiating from his broad chest. "You could have tipped the glass. You could have screamed. You chose to put your mouth on mine in front of two hundred armed men."
Fay met his dark eyes, refusing to look down. "If I yelled, you wouldn't have believed a dishwasher over your fiancée. You would have taken the sip while trying to figure out who was causing a scene. And tipping the glass meant getting shot by your guards before I could reach you. The only way to stop you was to make you freeze."
A ghost of an amused, feral smirk touched Griffin’s mouth before vanishing back into shadows. "Clever girl."
"Griffin!" Celeste cried, lunging forward, attempting to wrap her hands around his forearm. "Listen to me! It’s a setup! The Moretti family—they paid someone! They’re framing me!"
Griffin didn't even look at her as he sidestepped her touch, letting her stumble forward onto her knees, right into the shattered glass of the poisoned flute. Celeste shrieked in agony as shards pierced her palms, blood mixing with the smoking puddle.
"Lock down the estate," Griffin ordered loudly, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Nobody leaves this ballroom. Marco, take Miss Maro to the basement cells. Treat her hands—I want all ten fingers intact when we start asking questions."
"No! Griffin, please! No!" Celeste screamed, thrashing as two massive guards hoisted her off the floor, hauling her away like a broken doll while the high-society crowd shrank back in horror.
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Griffin turned his full attention back to Fay. He reached down, took her trembling, soapy right hand in his gloved fingers, and pulled her toward his side.
"You just bought my life, Fay Lawson," he murmured against her ear, sending a deep shiver racing down her spine. "Which means, until I balance that debt, your life belongs exclusively to me."
