Chapter 3 - THE ART OF DECEPTION
The walk-in freezer was growing colder by the second, but Clara felt a sudden, strange rush of heat fueled by adrenaline. Dominic pulled a sleek, encrypted smartphone from his trousers and dialed a single number. He didn’t wait for a greeting.
“Silas,” Dominic said, his voice a low, lethal hum. “Victor has made his move. He’s holding a civilian hostage at the Gilded Crumb on Hanover. Take the Alpha team. Breach from the rear alleyway. Heavy resistance expected, mostly Victor’s loyalists. The primary objective is a young man named Leo Keough. I want him alive and breathing. If the scarred man holding him twitches, take his head off.”
He listened for a moment, then nodded. “No. I am not canceling the party. We proceed. Give me forty-five minutes, then execute the raid. Leave no one of Victor's alive.”
Dominic hung up and turned back to Clara. She was staring at him, wide-eyed, her knuckles white as she clutched the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.
“My men are the best in the world, Clara,” he said, his tone softening just a fraction. “They will get your brother out. But for this to work, for Silas to have the time he needs to secure the perimeter in Boston, Victor has to believe you followed through. He needs to see the poison take effect.”
“But you took the vial,” Clara said, her breath pluming in the freezing air. “How can I poison you without the poison?”
Dominic reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver pillbox. He opened it to reveal a single, translucent capsule. “This is a beta-blocker mixed with a fast-acting, harmless vasodilator. It lowers the heart rate and drops blood pressure dramatically. To an observer, it mimics the onset of cardiogenic shock—shortness of breath, pale skin, collapsing. I will take this just before dessert is served.”
He handed her the capsule. “You will crush this and dissolve it into the amaretto syrup. When you serve the cake, Victor will be watching. I will eat it. I will collapse. My personal physician, who is loyal only to me, will declare me dead. Victor will show his hand and attempt to take control of the room. And when his guard is down...” Dominic’s amber eyes glinted with a predatory light, “I will rise from the dead.”
Clara stared at the capsule in her palm. It felt infinitely lighter than the poison, yet the weight of the deception was crushing. “If Victor finds out I betrayed him before Silas gets to Leo...”
“He won’t,” Dominic interrupted, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “You are going to walk out of this freezer, Clara, and you are going to finish baking the best almond-amaretto sponge cake of your life. You will not shake. You will not hesitate. You will channel every ounce of fear you have into the precision of your craft. Can you do that?”
Clara closed her eyes, picturing Leo’s bruised face, then picturing the warm, golden glow of her bakery. She thought of her parents, of the legacy she had fought so hard to build from flour and water. She opened her eyes, and the terror had been replaced by a fierce, burning resolve.
“I can do it,” she said firmly.
Dominic smiled, a genuine expression that transformed his sharp features into something startlingly handsome. “I knew I liked your bakery for a reason. Take off my jacket. Let’s go put on a show.”
Clara slipped the jacket off, handing it back to him. The cold bit into her again, but she barely felt it. She tucked the silver capsule into her apron pocket, where the poison had been, and pushed the heavy freezer door open.
The kitchen roared back to life around them. The head chef shot them a curious, nervous glance, but Dominic simply adjusted his cuffs and nodded. “Miss Keough has found what she needs. See that she has the room to finish the dessert.”
With that, the mafia boss swept out of the kitchen, looking every inch the relaxed, confident billionaire celebrating his thirty-fifth birthday.
Clara returned to her marble counter. The sponge layers were perfectly cooled. She whipped the mascarpone, her hands steady, her movements fluid and practiced. When it came time to make the amaretto syrup, she crushed the capsule with the back of a spoon, dissolving the fine powder into the sweet, amber liquid. She brushed the syrup generously over the sponge, assembling the tiers, smoothing the rich frosting over the edges, and garnishing it with toasted almonds and delicate spun sugar.
It was a masterpiece. It was also a Trojan horse.
May you like
A waiter in a crisp white uniform appeared at her side, a silver cart at the ready. “It’s time, Miss. Mr. Moretti specifically requested that you present the cake yourself.”
Clara’s blood ran cold at the mention of Victor’s name. This was the final test. She wiped her hands on a clean towel, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Let’s go.”
