Chapter 12 - The Poisoned Glass
Despite the public victory, the tension never dissipated. It merely retreated into the shadows.
An hour later, as Luca was pulled into a private conversation with three city councilmen near the balcony, Teresa and I sat at our reserved table, flanked by four of Luca’s most loyal soldiers.
A young waiter in a crisp white vest approached our table with a silver tray bearing two crystal flutes of vintage champagne.
"Compliments of the house for Mrs. Moretti and her guest," the young man said, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered.
"Thank you, young man," Teresa said graciously, reaching her hand out toward one of the glasses.
"Wait," I said sharply, my hand shooting out to grasp Teresa’s wrist before she could touch the stem.
Teresa stopped, looking at me in surprise. "Emily?"
I stared at the waiter. He was trembling. A faint, almost imperceptible bead of sweat had formed along his hairline, and his fingers gripped the edge of the tray too tightly. But more than that—my medical training caught something else.
The bubbles in one of the flutes were rising irregularly, clinging to a microscopic film of residue along the inner glass that ordinary eyes would have overlooked.
"Where is Anthony?" I asked quietly, naming the senior banquet manager who usually oversaw the VIP tables.
"He... he was called downstairs, ma'am," the waiter stammered, his voice shifting an octave higher.
"Set the tray down," I ordered, rising slowly from my seat.
The waiter panicked. Instead of setting it down, he violently swung the tray toward Teresa, attempting to splash the contents directly into her face.
"Teresa, down!" I yelled, throwing my own body across the matriarch and slamming her back into the padded booth.
The crystal shattered against the table edge. The liquid splashed across the linen tablecloth, instantly hissing and eating into the fabric with a pungent, chemical smell. Cyanide.
Marco lunged forward, tackling the waiter to the marble floor in a brutal crash of bone and splintered wood.
The ballroom descended into screams and panic.
Before the chaos could fully erupt, Luca appeared. He moved like lightning, tearing through the crowd, his face twisted in a look of terrifying, feral fury.
"Emily! Ma!" he roared, dropping to his knees beside the booth.
"We're fine! We're fine, Luca!" I gasped, checking Teresa’s arms and face. Not a drop had touched her. "It’s cyanide. The tablecloth absorbed it."
Luca looked at the smoking cloth, then looked down at the waiter pinned beneath Marco’s knee. The coldness in Luca's eyes turned into pure, absolute zero.
"Who sent you?" Luca asked, his voice deathly quiet.
The waiter spat blood onto the floor, laughing hysterically. "Julian sends his regards, Moretti! You think your house is safe? You think your fortress holds? Chicago belongs to Vance!"
Luca didn't waste another word. He signaled to Marco. "Take him to the basement warehouse. Keep him breathing until I arrive."
Then, Luca reached down and pulled me into his arms, lifting me straight off my feet and holding me tightly against his chest in front of the entire assembly. He didn't care about decorum. He didn't care about appearances. His heart beat wildly against my ear.
"You protected her again," he whispered against my hair, his grip trembling with repressed emotion. "You protected her, and you risked yourself."
"I told you," I breathed into his neck, resting my hand against his cheek. "I don't let anyone hurt my family."
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Luca pulled back, his slate eyes burning with an emotion so fierce it took my breath away. "We leave now. The safehouse at Lake Geneva is ready. Tonight, this war ends."
***