Chapter 2 - THE ANATOMY OF A SETUP
The air in the Prohibition-era vault was thick with the scent of damp limestone and stagnant dust, but the small metal spoon Dominic Vale held between his thumb and forefinger carried a completely different odor.
It smelled of burnt almonds and sharp, chemical decay.
Claire stared at the blackened edge of the silver spoon, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her injured palm throbbed, the crude linen handkerchief Mason Reed had given her now soaked through with dark, sticky blood. Yet, despite the pain, a cold wave of vindication washed over her.
Dominic stepped closer, his heavy leather shoes clicking against the stone floor. Without the blinding lights of the grand ballroom, his presence felt even more absolute, like a storm trapped inside a concrete bunker. The gray eyes that had unnerved senators and cartel leaders were locked entirely on her face.
“Mason’s team ran a rapid chemical test using the diagnostic kit we keep in the security wing,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on the back of Claire’s neck stand up. “The residue in the decanter tested positive for a synthetic variant of oleandrin, combined with a fast-acting neurotoxin. A drop of it on the tongue stops the heart within forty seconds.”
Claire swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Then... you know I was telling the truth.”
“I know the wine was poisoned, Claire,” Dominic corrected softly, taking another step until he was standing just inches away. He was tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. “What I don’t know is why you’re the one standing here bleeding in a stone cell while my fiancée is upstairs drinking champagne with our investors.”
“Evelyn did it,” Claire blurted out, the urgency overriding her fear. “She intercepted me near the service entrance. She pretended my vest button was loose. She used that exact moment to slip something into the decanter while my back was turned. She orchestrated the entire thing.”
Dominic didn’t flinch. He didn’t interrupt. He simply listened, his sharp gaze dissecting every micro-expression on her face.
“Why would Evelyn want to poison me?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual. “We are scheduled to be married in three weeks. The merger between my shipping lines and her father’s European logistics network makes us untouchable.”
“That’s why,” Claire pressed forward, desperate to make him see the trap that had been laid for him. “The merger makes you powerful, yes, but look at the terms. If you die before the papers are legally finalized, the control of the combined assets reverts to the primary surviving partner’s designated estate trustee—which, under the preliminary clauses Evelyn’s father drafted last month, is her. She wouldn’t just be your grieving widow, Mr. Vale. She’d be your successor.”
Silence settled over the cold room, heavy and absolute.
Dominic’s jaw tightened. A muscle twitched near his temple—the only external sign of the volcanic intelligence processing the information behind those cold gray eyes.
“You have a remarkable head for business details for a sommelier,” Dominic observed quietly.
“My father taught me to read contracts before he taught me how to read grape yields,” Claire replied, her voice steadying despite the pain in her hand. “When you manage a multi-million-dollar cellar, you learn to look past the label to see who actually owns the vines.”
Dominic stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, a faint, humorless smirk touched the corner of his lips.
“Upstairs, Evelyn is currently telling the elite of Manhattan that you are a deranged stalker obsessed with my wealth,” Dominic said, turning the silver spoon over in his hand. “She has half the city convinced you snapped because I wouldn’t look twice at your wine list.”
“And what do you think?” Claire whispered.
Dominic snapped his fingers, and the heavy iron door swung open. Mason Reed stood in the corridor, flanked by two armed guards.
“I think,” Dominic said, turning back to look at Claire as he stepped toward the exit, “that Evelyn made a fatal miscalculation. She assumed I was a man who only listened to people wearing designer gowns.”
He stopped at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder.
May you like
“Mason, take Claire to the private medical suite on the third floor. Have our physician stitch up that hand. And then... bring her to my study. It’s time we discussed how to host a proper execution.”
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