Clara to cling tightly around his neck and point past his shoulder directly toward the untouched wineglass beside his seat

The guests around the mahogany perimeter sat frozen, their silver forks hovering over linen napkins. Men who had spent thirty years burying rivals in shallow graves across the state held their breath, their knuckles white against crystal water glasses.

Clara clung to Roman’s lapel with both hands, her tiny knuckles whitening against the charcoal wool. Her sobs had quieted into shallow, rhythmic hiccups against his collar, but her small frame still shuddered.

Roman gently stroked the back of her ivory cardigan, his thumb brushing away the damp curls clinging to her rosy cheek. "You're safe, Clara. Tell me where you hurt."

Clara shook her head against his throat. She sniffled, her chest heaving, and then pulled her chin back just enough to look past Roman’s shoulder.

Her small, trembling index finger rose, extending toward the center of the table.

She pointed directly at the crystal wineglass sitting beside Roman’s silver charger—the glass that had been pre-poured from his personal decanter before the family took their seats.

"Daddy…" Clara’s voice cracked, a fragile, terrified whisper that echoed off the high ceiling beams. "Aunt Katherine said you die after that drink."

The word dropped into the dining gallery like an unexploded shell.

A capo at the far end of the table dropped his silver fork; it struck a porcelain saucer with a deafening ring. Nobody moved to pick it up.

Roman’s dark eyes shifted slowly. His gaze traveled from his daughter’s small, outstretched finger across the linen tablecloth, arriving at the deep burgundy liquid standing undisturbed in the crystal chalice. The wine was dark, thick at the rim, catching the clean northern daylight in crimson facets.

To Roman’s right, sitting three seats down, Marcus D’Angelo flinched.

At forty, Marcus was Roman’s elder cousin—a capo whose ambition had always outpaced his nerve. He wore an immaculate bespoke suit pinned with the gold D’Angelo falcon, but his complexion had suddenly drained of its rosy hue. The moment Clara’s finger pointed at the glass, Marcus’s eyes darted with frantic, involuntary guilt toward the private decanter resting beside Roman’s seat.

Roman felt the shift in the room before anyone spoke. He turned his head by inches, his profile sharp, cruel, and cinematic against the winter light.

"Marcus," Roman said softly.

Marcus cleared his throat, his hand twitching against the stem of his water goblet. "Roman, come on. Look at what you’re doing. You’re scaring the family over the babble of a child."

"A child," Roman repeated. The timbre of his voice was deep, velvet, and laced with absolute venom. "My daughter."

"She had a bad dream," Marcus insisted, forcing an awkward, hearty chuckle that died instantly in his throat. He looked around the table, seeking allies among the stone-faced men who reported to him, but every capo kept their eyes fixed on their plates. "She's confused, Roman. You know how toddlers are. They make up stories when they get upset."

Roman did not answer. He slowly shifted Clara in his arm, preparing to set his daughter safely behind him on the padded banquette near the double doors.

"Salvatore," Roman commanded, not taking his eyes off the crystal chalice.

From the shadows near the grand entrance, Salvatore Greco stepped forward. At forty-eight, the security chief was built like a block of granite, his dark suit buttoned, his right hand resting inside his left breast pocket.