Chapter 1
The cascading crystal chandeliers cast a brilliant, warm golden light across the gilded moldings and ivory-paneled walls of the grand dining hall. It was a masterpiece of architectural opulence, anchored by a massive, carved marble fireplace that crackled with a steady, comforting blaze. The luxurious interior was heavily perfumed with the scent of white roses, meticulously arranged between tall ivory candles glowing in heavy silver candelabras. Polished walnut tables stretched across the expanse of the room, surrounded by plush champagne velvet chairs. The generous illumination clearly revealed the faces of the city’s elite, highlighting the fair, rosy skin and crisp American accents of the fifty guests in attendance. Laughter and the clinking of fine porcelain filled the air, masking the lethal reality of the men and women breaking bread together. Tonight was a memorial dinner, marking exactly six months since the former boss of the syndicate had supposedly died peacefully in his sleep.
At the head of the room sat Dominic Kincaid. He was a mafia boss of terrifying repute, yet he possessed the movie-star handsome features of a classic leading man. His powerful, broad shoulders effortlessly filled out a tailored dark three-piece suit. He had an angular face, a high-bridged nose, and a sharply defined jawline shadowed by extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble. His thick, slightly wavy hair was naturally swept back, though a few loose strands fell carelessly across his forehead. Refined artistic tattoos graced his hands and fingers with generous spacing, catching the candlelight as he adjusted his heavy family signet ring. A small, intricate neck tattoo peeked just above his crisp white collar.
"The transition of power has been seamless, Dominic," a wealthy syndicate lieutenant remarked, raising his crystal glass toward the head table. "Your father would be proud of the peace you've maintained."
Dominic stared at his glass, his cold, observant eyes unreadable. He turned his head slightly, his deep, low voice vibrating through the space. "Do you believe peace is ever maintained without bloodshed, Marcus?"
To his left stood his thirty-three-year-old fiancée, Bridget Shaw. She was draped in a sculpted satin evening gown that clung perfectly to her figure. Diamond earrings caught the golden light, matching the massive engagement ring that rested heavily on her finger. She offered a carefully reassuring public smile to the guests, playing the role of the devoted future wife to perfection.
Moving gracefully near the edge of the dining hall was Etta Collins. The twenty-seven-year-old housemaid was breathtakingly beautiful, with a softly oval face, expressive brows, delicate cheekbones, and fair, rosy skin. Her hair was immaculately arranged in a neat low bun. Her slender figure and graceful posture were highlighted by a fitted black maid dress featuring a cinched waist, a short A-line skirt, a neatly tied white apron, and a crisp white collar and cuffs.
Etta approached the head table carrying a silver serving tray holding the after-dinner tea. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. Just moments ago, hidden in the shadows of the butler’s pantry, Etta had witnessed Bridget unscrewing a small, unmarked dropper bottle and adding several clear drops into Dominic’s teacup. Etta knew exactly what was in that bottle. Earlier that week, she had accidentally overheard a hushed, terrifying conversation where Bridget admitted to using those exact drops to poison Dominic’s father.
Etta set the serving tray down onto a side console. Bridget smoothly lifted the teacup from the tray and placed it directly in front of Dominic.
May you like
Etta stood paralyzed, watching as Dominic’s heavily tattooed hand reached for the fragile porcelain handle. The cup left the saucer. He raised the teacup toward his lips.
Operating entirely on raw instinct, Etta lunged forward. She reached across the polished walnut table, her slender fingers gently but firmly catching Dominic’s powerful wrist. The sudden contact was electric. Dominic stopped instantly, his reflexes absolute; not a single drop of the poisoned tea spilled from the cup.
