Chapter 4 - THE POISON IN THE GLASS
“Spit it out!” Victor roared, lunging across the space between him and Gabriel.
Gabriel, who had nervously raised his wineglass to his lips just seconds before, froze. His eyes widened in shock as Victor slapped the crystal goblet from his hand. The glass shattered against the marble floor, splashing dark red Cabernet across Gabriel’s trousers.
Screams erupted from the banquet tables. Guests scrambled out of their chairs, knocking over silverware and plates in their desperate haste to back away.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Victor?” Gabriel shouted, wiping his stained hands on his jacket.
Victor ignored him. He thrust the crumpled baggage claim ticket into his brother’s chest.
Gabriel stumbled back, catching the ticket. He looked down at the frantic red scrawl on the back.
Celeste isn’t acting alone. Her men are disguised as the catering staff. Don’t drink the wine.
Gabriel’s face drained of all color. He looked at the shattered glass at his feet, realizing he had been milliseconds away from swallowing a lethal dose.
“Answer one question, find two more,” I murmured, pulling little Leo tightly against my side, shielding him from the chaos.
We knew Richard was a traitor. We knew the Vales murdered Victor’s father.
But we didn’t know Celeste had turned this anniversary dinner into an execution chamber.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors leading to the kitchens swung open. Six men in crisp white catering uniforms marched into the room. But they weren’t carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres or champagne.
They were carrying suppressed handguns, drawn and pointed directly at the Moretti family.
The guests shrieked, diving beneath the large circular tables. Elderly men and women covered their heads, weeping in terror. Ruth Callahan stood frozen by the head table, her knuckles white as she gripped her biscuit tin against her chest.
I pulled Leo behind a heavy velvet curtain near the wall, my heart pounding so hard I felt it in my teeth.
“Nobody move!” the lead caterer shouted. He reached behind him and locked the massive kitchen doors with a heavy metallic click. He then gestured to his men, who swiftly moved to lock the main entrance doors as well.
We were trapped.
Celeste, who had been backing away in panic just moments ago, suddenly stopped. The fear melted from her face, replaced by a chilling, arrogant smile. She straightened her posture, smoothing down the front of her expensive silk gown.
“I told you, Victor,” Celeste said, her voice dripping with venomous triumph. “You are a fool.”
Victor stood perfectly still, positioning his large frame between the gunmen and his brother. He didn’t reach for his own weapon. He was calculating the odds, and with thirty innocent guests in the crossfire, the odds were terrible.
“You think killing us here solves your problems, Celeste?” Victor asked calmly. “My men are stationed outside the estate. You fire those weapons, you’ll never make it down the driveway.”
“Your men outside are currently dealing with a coordinated attack on your southern warehouses,” Celeste replied smoothly, walking over to the head table and pouring herself a fresh glass of water. “By the time they realize this dinner was the real target, my father’s extraction team will have already airlifted me out of here. And you, Gabriel, and this meddling old cook will be dead.”
The reversal was staggering.
We had all assumed Celeste was acting out of desperate obedience to her bankrupt father. We thought she was a pawn in Arthur Vale’s frantic attempt to secure the St. Bridget’s property.
But as she commanded the armed men with effortless authority, the truth became horrifyingly clear.
Celeste wasn’t the pawn. She was the architect.
“My father is a weak, sentimental old man,” Celeste sneered, taking a sip of water. “He spent twenty-five years terrified of what your mother might have hidden. I grew tired of watching him cower to the Moretti name. So, I handled it. I seduced you. I bought your lawyer. I found the leverage.”
“Richard found the leverage,” Gabriel corrected her, his voice shaking with fury. “And your men kidnapped him. Why? If he was working for you, why attack him in the orphanage basement?”
Celeste rolled her eyes, looking genuinely annoyed by the question.
“Because Richard developed a sudden, inconvenient conscience,” she snapped. “He found the silver bracelet, yes. But he refused to hand it over to my men. He realized we were going to kill you tonight, and he panicked. He said he wouldn’t let innocent blood be spilled over a real estate deal.”
Behind the velvet curtain, Leo whimpered softly, burying his face in my apron.
“Shh, sweet boy, it’s going to be okay,” I whispered, though my own tears were threatening to spill.
I looked over at Ruth Callahan. The elderly woman was standing dangerously close to one of the gunmen. Her face was pale, but her jaw was set with a stubborn, fierce determination.
Ruth slowly reached into her apron pocket. For a terrifying second, I thought she had a weapon.
Instead, she pulled out a heavy, intricately engraved gold pocket watch.
She took a deliberate step toward Leo and me, ignoring the gunmen who tracked her movement. She knelt beside the curtain and pressed the cold gold watch into Leo’s small hands.
“Hold this for me, brave boy,” Ruth whispered softly, her voice remarkably steady. “Listen to the ticking. Focus on the ticking. Don’t look at the bad men.”
Leo sniffled, clutching the watch to his chest. “Okay, Mrs. Callahan.”
Victor watched this exchange. His eyes narrowed. He looked at the pocket watch, then at Ruth, and then back at the watch.
“Ruth,” Victor said, his voice laced with sudden, intense confusion. “Where did you get that watch?”
Ruth stood up, her frail back straight as an arrow. She turned to face Victor, her eyes filled with a profound, heartbreaking sorrow.
“My husband gave it to me on our wedding day,” Ruth said quietly.
“Your husband,” Victor repeated. “Mr. Callahan.”
“No,” Ruth said, her voice cracking for the first time. “My first husband. Before he died. Before I changed my name.”
Victor’s eyes widened. He stepped closer to Leo, disregarding the guns pointed at his chest. He gently took the pocket watch from the child’s hands and pressed the small latch on the side.
The gold cover popped open.
Inside the lid, an inscription was engraved in elegant cursive.
Victor read it aloud, his voice barely a whisper, yet it echoed like a scream in the silent room.
“To my beloved son, Richard Whitcomb. May time always be on your side.”
May you like
Victor slowly raised his head, staring at the elderly cook who had fed him when he was a boy.
“Richard…” Victor breathed. “Richard is your son.”
