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

The subterranean wine cellar beneath the D’Angelo manor was an ancient, vaulted stone corridor built into the bedrock of the estate, insulated from the winter cold by five-foot-thick limestone walls. Rows of antique oak casks and floor-to-ceiling iron wine racks receded into the gloom, lit only by bare industrial bulbs humming at thirty-foot intervals.

Salvatore led the way, carrying the decanter in his left hand and a heavy iron ring of keys in his right. Two younger bodyguards, their faces set like concrete, dragged Marcus down the damp stone steps by his collar, tossing him onto the cold flagstones where he lay curled in a pathetic ball.

Katherine was brought down two minutes later, wrapped in a coarse wool horse-blanket to hide her torn sapphire gown, her wrists bound tightly behind her back with tactical zip-ties. She had stopped weeping; her fair skin had settled into a sullen, venomous gray, her eyes burning with the quiet hatred of a defeated conspirator.

Roman descended the stairs last. He had removed his torn waistcoat, leaving him in his crisp white dress shirt and charcoal trousers. The sleeve tattoos on his arms seemed to writhe in the flickering shadows as he rolled his cuffs up past his elbows.

In the corner of the cellar, secured behind heavy steel bars, was a private tasting cage used by Roman’s grandfather during the prohibition wars—a secure cell designed for storage, interrogation, and permanent silence.

"Put them inside," Roman instructed.

The guards shoved Marcus and Katherine through the iron gate, slamming the bars shut with a resonant, metallic boom that echoed down the long stone tunnel.

Roman walked up to the bars, his hands resting casually on the cold iron.

"Where is the secondary team, Marcus?" Roman asked.

Marcus looked up from the floor, his swollen jaw twitching. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't insult my intelligence," Roman said smoothly. "Chicago doesn't back a coup with a single vial of aconite. A hit on a reigning Don requires a perimeter cleanup. If I had died at the table, who was scheduled to secure the gates?"

Marcus kept his mouth shut, looking toward his mother.

Katherine let out a dry, raspy laugh from the shadows of the cage. "You think you're so smart, Roman. You think you've won because you broke my serving display and gave my son a concussion? The gates are already sealed from the outside."

Salvatore’s head snapped toward the staircase. His hand instinctively drifted inside his suit coat to the grip of his suppressed pistol.

Roman didn't flinch. He slowly checked his platinum wristwatch.

"Five o'clock," Roman noted. "The perimeter shifts at five. That means your friends from Chicago are already parked on the access road, waiting for the smoke signal from the chimney."

Katherine smiled through her split lip, her teeth stained with blood. "They have thirty men, Roman. Heavy caliber. Tactical gear. They were told that if the house didn't go dark by sunset, they were to breach the grounds and burn every living thing inside to the ground."