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

The confession hung in the freezing air of the dining gallery, heavier than the mahogany beams overhead.

Aconite. Monkshood. A lethal neurotoxin that would have stopped Roman’s heart within twenty minutes of the first toast, mimicking a massive, sudden myocardial infarction before the medical examiner could even arrive. A clean death for a healthy thirty-year-old Don, leaving the throne vacant, the territory leaderless, and the succession open to the eldest surviving male capo: Marcus.

Roman didn't blink. He slowly rose to his feet, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt until the gold cufflinks sat perfectly against the linen.

"Stand up, Marcus," Roman said, not looking at the clock.

Beneath the shattered walnut casing, Marcus scrambled like a beaten mongrel. He kicked his legs out from under the heavy timber, knocking over broken glass and decorative crackers as he dragged himself upright. His bespoke jacket was torn at the shoulder, his face swollen and purple where Roman’s fist had caved in his cheek. He stood against the wall, clutching his broken arm, refusing to meet Roman’s eyes.

"Who supplied the tincture?" Roman asked.

Marcus swallowed hard, blood bubbling between his teeth. "Roman... look at the bigger picture. We did this for the family. The Chicago syndicate... they told us they wouldn't sign the port agreement as long as you were in charge. They said you were too aggressive. Too volatile."

"You sold my life to Chicago?" Roman asked, his tone deceptively mild.

"They promised us peace!" Marcus cried out, his voice cracking with hysterical justification. "They promised twenty years of guaranteed revenue along the eastern seaboard! All they wanted was a partner they could negotiate with! A partner who understood compromise!"

"And you thought my daughter would just disappear into an orphanage after you buried me?" Roman took a slow, deliberate step toward his cousin.

Every capo at the table flinched. One of the older soldiers, a man named Vincent who had served Roman’s father for three decades, stood up slowly, his hands held visible and flat against his trousers.

"Don Roman," Vincent rasped, his voice trembling with shame. "I swear on the graves of my children, I knew nothing of this poison. If I had known, I would have put a bullet in Marcus's skull before he set foot on this property."

Roman did not turn his head to look at Vincent. "Sit down, Vincent. If I thought you were part of this, you would already be bleeding on that runner."

Vincent sat down instantly, bowing his head in total submission.

Roman stopped two inches from Marcus’s chest. The height difference was only an inch, but Roman seemed to tower over the older capo like a monument of dark stone.

"You brought poison to my Christmas table," Roman whispered, his lips almost brushing Marcus’s ear. "You brought poison into the room where my daughter eats her meals. And you thought you were going to sit in my chair."

Marcus began to tremble, his knees knocking against each other. "Roman... we have the same blood. Our fathers were brothers. You can strip my rank. You can take my territory in Jersey. Just let me take my mother and leave the state. We’ll go to Florida. We’ll never come back."

Roman looked at him for three long, agonizing seconds.

Then, a cold, humorless smile touched the corner of the Don’s lips.

"Salvatore," Roman said.