Chapter 2 - THE POISONED TRADE
Julian Rossi’s deep, rumbling voice cut through the crystal-clinking elegance of Table One like a gunshot. "Actually, I think I will have what my wife is having. Camilla, darling... why don't we trade bowls?"
Harper stood perfectly still, the crisp white linen of her apron brushing against the edge of the table. Her heart pounded a frantic, deafening rhythm against her ribs. In her pocket, the glass vial of cyanide felt as heavy as a lead weight.
Camilla’s perfectly sculpted smile froze. The delicate, diamond-clad fingers wrapped around her champagne flute tightened, the knuckles flushing white. For a fraction of a second, the ice-cold socialite’s mask slipped, revealing a frantic, cornered animal underneath.
Camilla thought Harper had successfully poisoned Julian’s bisque. She didn’t know the soup was perfectly safe.
"Julian, please," Camilla laughed, though the sound was brittle and high-pitched. "Don't be absurd. The chef prepared these specifically for our respective dietary tastes. Mine has extra cream. You hate cream."
Julian didn’t smile. He didn't blink. He simply reached out with his large, scarred hands and physically slid his pristine, steaming bowl of lobster bisque across the silk tablecloth, stopping it directly in front of his wife. He then took her untouched bowl and pulled it toward himself.
"I'm feeling adventurous tonight," Julian whispered, his dark, predatory eyes locked onto Camilla’s pale face. "Eat, my love."
The heavy silence around Table One rippled outward. The other syndicate bosses and their wives stopped talking. The clatter of silverware ceased. The tension in the dining room grew so thick it threatened to shatter the crystal chandeliers overhead.
Camilla stared down at the orange-pink soup. A bead of sweat ruined the flawless powder on her forehead. She looked up at Harper, her eyes flashing with a sudden, vicious realization. She knew.
"I... I suddenly have no appetite," Camilla stammered, abruptly pushing her chair back. The heavy mahogany legs scraped violently against the marble floor.
"Sit down," Julian commanded. The volume of his voice didn't raise, but the lethal authority in it made two armed guards at the perimeter instinctively rest their hands on their holstered weapons.
"No," Camilla hissed, her composure completely shattering. She threw her napkin onto the table. "You're insane. I need some air."
She turned and practically ran toward the veranda doors. Julian didn't chase her. He simply raised two fingers. Immediately, four men in tailored suits detached from the shadows and followed Camilla out into the night.
Harper realized this was her only window. The chaos had peaked.
She turned and power-walked toward the kitchen doors, her white-gloved hands trembling so violently she had to clench them into fists. Just get to the locker room. Change clothes. Run back to Lily. The thought of her little sister’s pale, hopeful face sitting in the dialysis clinic fueled Harper’s desperate steps.
She burst through the swinging kitchen doors, ignoring the screaming head chef, and darted down the narrow service hallway. She reached the employee exit and shoved her weight against the heavy steel crash bar.
It didn't budge. It was chained shut from the outside.
Before Harper could pivot, a massive, bruising hand clamped around her throat from behind, slamming her brutally against the steel door. Her breath left her in a violent gasp.
It was the henchman in the charcoal suit. The one who had given her the poison.
"You stupid, arrogant bitch," the man spat, pressing his forearm against her windpipe, cutting off her oxygen. "You didn't pour it. You warned him."
Harper clawed frantically at his arm, black spots dancing in her vision.
"The Madam is dead because of you," the henchman snarled, drawing a heavy, suppressed pistol with his free hand. He pressed the cold steel barrel directly under Harper’s chin. "And now, you're going to join her."
Harper closed her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek. I'm sorry, Lily.
Thwip.
A suppressed gunshot echoed through the narrow hallway. But the bullet didn't hit Harper.
The pressure on her throat vanished instantly. The henchman’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed to the linoleum floor like a sack of wet cement, a dark pool of crimson spreading rapidly from the back of his skull.
Harper gasped for air, sliding down the door, coughing violently.
She looked up through her tears. Standing at the end of the hallway, a smoking gun in his hand, was Julian Rossi.
He slowly walked toward her, stepping elegantly over the bleeding corpse of his wife’s assassin. He crouched down, his dark, terrifying eyes level with Harper’s terrified face.
He didn't say thank you. He reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a worn, slightly crumpled hospital bill.
"Your name is Harper Evans," Julian said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that chilled her to the bone. "You owe Chicago General sixty thousand dollars for pediatric nephrology treatments."
May you like
Harper’s heart stopped. "How... how do you know that?"
Julian tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he had just solved. "Because, Harper... my wife didn't just try to kill me tonight. She tried to frame you for it. And I need to know why Camilla chose a blacklisted chef to be my executioner."
