Chapter 11 - The Poisoned Glass
Petrov’s hand twitched toward his holster, but Roman’s weapon was already out, the muzzle pressed directly beneath Petrov’s chin before anyone could blink.
"One move, Nikolai," Roman purred, his voice dropping to a deathly whisper, "and your brains will decorate that crystal chandelier."
Two dozen weapons were instantly unholstered across the room, the sharp clacking of slides racking creating a symphony of impending carnage. The host of the gala, an elderly Italian don named Moretti, rushed between them with raised hands.
"Peace! Peace in this house!" Moretti pleaded. "Roman! Petrov! We are under the sacred truce of the Solstice! Put your weapons away!"
Petrov sneered, swallowing hard against the cold steel under his jaw. "Enjoy your triumph while you can, Vane." He slowly backed away, signaling his men to stand down, and disappeared into the crowd.
Roman holstered his gun, smoothing his tuxedo lapel as if nothing had happened. He turned to me, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
"Remind me never to make an enemy of you, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dripping with respect.
"I was bluffing about the docks," I whispered, my knees trembling now that the adrenaline was fading.
"I know," Roman said, his eyes glittering. "Which makes it all the more brilliant."
A tuxedo-clad waiter approached our table, holding a silver tray with two glasses of vintage champagne. "Compliments of Don Moretti, Mr. Vane. To celebrate the armistice."
I reached out, my throat parched from the sheer stress of the encounter. My fingers brushed the crystal flute.
"Wait," Roman’s voice was suddenly sharp as a whip.
He caught my wrist inches from the glass. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the rim of the flute. Under the chandelier's bright light, a microscopic dusting of white residue clung to the edge of the crystal.
Roman snatched the glass from the tray. He dipped a pristine linen napkin into the golden liquid; within three seconds, the fine fabric began to sizzle with faint, corrosive smoke.
Aconite. Wolfsbane. Instant cardiac arrest.
The waiter dropped the tray with a clatter and bolted toward the kitchen service doors.
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"Viktor!" Roman roared, throwing the poisoned glass to the ground, where it shattered into a million sharp shards. "Lock every exit! There is a traitor in our ranks!"
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