Chapter 4 - THE POISONED SLICE
The grand dining hall of the Russo estate was a study in dangerous opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light over a massive mahogany table seating thirty of the most powerful and lethal men and women on the Eastern Seaboard. Politicians rubbed shoulders with union bosses; impeccably dressed capos sat beside high-priced lawyers. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, spilled champagne, and unspoken threats.
At the head of the table sat Dominic Russo, holding court with an effortless, terrifying charm. And sitting three seats down, his eyes fixed on the doors leading to the kitchen, was Victor Moretti.
When Clara wheeled the silver cart into the room, the low murmur of conversation ceased. The cake sat under a glass cloche, glowing like a crown jewel. Clara kept her eyes fixed firmly on the cart, forcing her hands to stop trembling. She could feel Victor’s gaze burning into her skin, a heavy, suffocating pressure.
“Ah, the pièce de résistance,” Dominic announced, his voice carrying easily through the cavernous room. “A creation from the Gilded Crumb. A taste of the old neighborhood.”
Clara stopped the cart beside Dominic’s chair. She lifted the glass cloche, and the sweet, intoxicating scent of vanilla and amaretto wafted through the air. Several guests murmured in appreciation.
She took a silver cake knife, her fingers gripping the ornate handle tight enough to turn her knuckles white. She cut the first slice—the slice meant for the king. She plated it flawlessly, sliding a heavy silver fork beside it, and placed it on the table directly in front of Dominic.
As she stepped back, her eyes briefly met Victor’s. The underboss gave her a microscopic, chilling nod of approval. He thought he had won.
“To health,” Dominic said, raising a crystal glass of Barolo. “And to loyalty. A rare commodity these days, wouldn't you agree, Victor?”
Victor raised his own glass, his smile not reaching his cold, dead eyes. “The rarest, Boss. Happy birthday.”
Dominic picked up his fork. Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She watched as he broke off a piece of the sponge, coated in the spiked amaretto syrup, and brought it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, his expression unreadable, and swallowed.
“Exquisite,” Dominic praised, looking directly at Clara. “Truly, Miss Keough. A masterpiece.”
He took another bite. Then another.
Clara backed away, pressing herself against the silk-lined wall, praying that Silas and his men were already in position in the city. The digital clock on the mantle ticked by. One minute. Two minutes.
At the three-minute mark, it happened.
Dominic suddenly stopped talking mid-sentence. His hand, holding his wine glass, began to shake violently. The crystal stem snapped, sending dark red wine spilling across the pristine white tablecloth like fresh blood. He gasped for air, his other hand flying to his chest, clutching the fabric of his tuxedo shirt.
“Dominic?” the politician sitting to his left asked in alarm, pushing his chair back.
Dominic’s face drained of color, taking on an ashen, terrifying pallor. He tried to stand, but his legs gave out. He crashed sideways, taking the heavy mahogany chair down with him, hitting the imported Persian rug with a sickening thud.
Chaos erupted.
“Boss!” several capos shouted, drawing concealed weapons from their jackets, instantly scanning the room for threats.
Dr. Aris, Dominic’s personal physician, shoved his way through the panicked guests, dropping to his knees beside the fallen mafia lord. He pressed two fingers to Dominic’s neck, checked his pupils, and began chest compressions.
Clara stood frozen against the wall. The pills were working perfectly. Dominic looked entirely dead.
Victor Moretti stood up slowly from his chair. He adjusted the cuffs of his charcoal suit, a look of grim, manufactured sorrow crossing his face. He looked at one of his loyal men across the room and nodded.
Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed Clara by the hair, yanking her backward. She cried out in pain as the cold barrel of a suppressed pistol was jammed into her ribs. It was one of Victor’s men.
“Doctor,” Victor called out, his voice cutting through the panic, loud and authoritative. “What is his status?”
Dr. Aris looked up, his face grim, playing his part flawlessly. “He’s gone. Massive cardiac arrest. There’s no pulse.”
A shocked silence fell over the room. The King of Boston was dead.
Victor stepped out from behind the table, his eyes sweeping over the stunned loyalists. “Lock the doors,” he commanded his men. “No one leaves. The King is dead. And we have a traitor in our midst.” He pointed a dramatic, accusatory finger directly at Clara. “This baker. I saw her slip something into the cake.”
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Clara gasped, struggling against the man holding her. Victor was setting her up as the fall guy, just as she had feared.
“Take her to the cellar,” Victor ordered coldly. “She has a lot of questions to answer before she dies.”
