Chapter 2 - THE POISONED GAMBIT
Dominic Russo did not flinch. He did not gasp. His icy blue eyes remained locked on Lydia’s trembling fingers, tracking the invisible path her nail had just carved into the black cocktail napkin. An ‘X’. The universal symbol for a dead drop.
For a span of three seconds, the world inside the Onyx Room seemed to stop spinning. Lydia’s lungs burned. She realized she was holding her breath, waiting for the eruption.
Dominic’s gaze slowly dragged up from the napkin to meet hers. There was no warmth in his eyes, only a terrifying, calculating intelligence. He didn’t look at the decanter. He didn’t look at the crystal glass. He looked at the girl in the midnight-blue silk dress who was risking her life for a man she didn't know.
"Leo," Dominic said. His voice was a low, gravelly hum, barely audible over the jazz piano, yet it commanded absolute authority.
Leo Moretti leaned in, his easy smile vanishing. "Yeah, boss?"
"I suddenly lost my taste for scotch," Dominic murmured, never breaking eye contact with Lydia. With a casual flick of his wrist, as if brushing away a stray piece of lint, Dominic backhanded the heavy crystal glass.
It shattered against the edge of the mahogany table, sending the amber liquid splashing across the leather upholstery and the polished hardwood floor.
Lydia gasped, stepping back. Where the scotch hit the leather, a faint, acrid hiss rose into the air. The smell of bitter almonds and burning chemicals instantly masked the aroma of expensive cigar smoke. Cyanide, laced with something highly corrosive.
Leo’s gun was out before the glass even finished falling.
"Gun!" Leo roared, flipping the heavy mahogany table onto its side with one hand to create a barricade for Dominic.
The Onyx Room descended into absolute pandemonium. The jazz pianist screamed, diving behind his Steinway. Wall Street billionaires scrambled like frightened rats, abandoning their escorts and thousand-dollar bottles.
Lydia froze, her mind short-circuiting. She had expected violence, but the sheer speed of the Russo syndicate was blinding. Four heavily armed Castellano operatives had already stood up from a nearby booth, pulling suppressed submachine guns from their tailored coats. They had been waiting for the drink to drop him. Now, they were improvising.
A bullet shattered the frosted glass directly behind Lydia’s head, raining sharp, glittering diamonds over her shoulders.
"Get down!" a heavy hand grabbed her silk dress, yanking her violently to the floor. It was Dominic. He covered her body with his own, the bespoke Brioni suit pressing against her back as a hail of gunfire chewed through the mahogany table above them.
"You set this up?" Leo yelled over the deafening cracks of return fire, glaring down at Lydia. He had his weapon trained blindly over the barricade, firing methodical, suppressed shots.
"No!" Dominic barked, pulling a sleek, matte-black pistol from his waist. "She warned me. Where’s the manager?"
Lydia pressed her hands over her ears, tears of pure terror stinging her eyes. "Paul! Paul gave me the tray! He made me take it instead of Thomas!"
Dominic’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Leo. "Cover us. We’re moving to the kitchen."
Before Lydia could protest, Dominic hauled her to her feet by the strap of her dress. He didn't ask if she was ready. He shoved her forward, firing three rapid shots into the chest of a Castellano goon who had flanked them. The man dropped instantly.
They sprinted through the screaming crowd. Lydia’s high heels slipped on the blood-slicked floor, but Dominic’s iron grip kept her upright. They burst through the swinging metal doors of the prep kitchen.
It was empty, save for the massive stainless-steel countertops and the deafening sound of the chaos outside. But as they reached the staff exit, Lydia stopped dead, a scream catching in her throat.
Slumped against the alley door was Thomas. The senior waiter’s eyes were wide and glassy. A single bullet hole marred his forehead. The thick manila envelope of cash lay torn open on his lap, hundred-dollar bills soaking in a pooling puddle of deep crimson.
Lydia clamped a hand over her mouth, her stomach violently heaving. "Thomas..."
Dominic didn’t hesitate. He knelt beside the dead man, his hands moving with practiced, cold efficiency. He patted down Thomas’s jacket, ignoring the blood, and pulled out a cheap, disposable burner phone.
He tapped the screen. It was unlocked.
Dominic stood up, the neon light from the alley exit casting harsh shadows across his sculpted face. He turned the phone around so Lydia could see the glowing screen.
There was only one text message, received two minutes ago.
Drink served. Kill the girl. Take the coat.
Lydia’s heart stopped. "Kill... me?"
"They were never going to let you walk away, sweetheart," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Castellano ties up loose ends. But what I want to know is... why do they want your coat?"
Lydia’s mind raced. Her locker. Her father’s heavy leather trench coat. She had worn it to work tonight because it was raining, the only thing she had left of the man who abandoned her.
May you like
"My locker," she whispered, her voice trembling. "It’s in the breakroom."
"Then we’re going to the breakroom," Dominic said, ejecting his magazine and slamming a fresh one home. "And you’re going to tell me exactly who your father is."
