Chapter 4 - The Poisoned TableBy dawn, the storm had broken, leaving the mountains wrapped in a heavy, ethereal blanket of white fog that rolled off Lake Como like smoke.
The power had been restored around 4:00 AM, but sleep had been an impossibility. Luca had stayed in the east wing until the first gray light filtered through the French doors, sitting vigil in the armchair by the fireplace, keeping watch while I tried to process the reality of our situation. We weren't just husband and wife in a convenient arrangement anymore; we were targets in a deadly game of cat and mouse.
At 8:30 AM, a crisp knock sounded at my door.
It was Marco, looking uncharacteristically tense, holding a silver tray with fresh coffee and pastries.
“Signor Moretti requests your presence in the formal dining room for breakfast, Signora,” Marco said quietly, his eyes darting down the hallway to ensure no one else was listening. “The boss wants a united front. Elena and our uncle, Matteo, are already downstairs.”
“Uncle Matteo?” I asked, frowning as I tied the belt of my silk robe. “I thought Matteo was in Milan managing the shipping docks.”
“He arrived late last night, just before the storm knocked out the power,” Marco replied grimly. “He came in through the private security gate without calling ahead.”
A cold prickle of intuition danced down my spine. Uncle Matteo—the older, smooth-talking patriarch of the Moretti shipping empire who had raised Luca and Elena after their parents died. The man who controlled the syndicate’s purse strings.
“Tell Luca I’ll be down in five minutes,” I said.
When I pushed open the double doors of the formal dining room, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a bread knife.
The long mahogany table was set for four. Elena sat at the far end, sipping espresso with a smug, untouchable smirk playing around her lips. At the head of the table sat an older man with silver hair slicked straight back, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that screamed old-world mafia royalty—Uncle Matteo.
And standing directly behind Matteo’s chair, his massive arms crossed and his jaw set like iron, was Luca.
As I walked into the room, Matteo’s eyes swept over me, taking in every detail with the cold, calculating appraisal of a butcher inspecting livestock at a market.
“Ah,” Matteo smiled, his voice smooth and oily, like melted butter mixed with broken glass. “The little baker from Chicago. You look much more fragile in daylight, my dear. I’m surprised you haven’t fainted from the altitude yet.”
I didn't cower. I pulled out the chair directly opposite Elena, seated myself with practiced poise, and met Matteo’s gaze dead-on.
“I’m tougher than I look, Mr. Moretti,” I said clearly. “I’ve dealt with wedding cakes collapsing under three tiers of fondant. A few mountains don't scare me.”
Elena let out a sharp, mocking snort. “Baking cakes and surviving in this house are two very different sports, sweetie. You’re playing in the major leagues now, and trust me—you’re already striking out.”
“Enough, Elena,” Luca’s voice boomed across the dining room, rich with suppressed menace. He stepped around Matteo’s chair, walking over to stand directly behind my seat. His large hand rested lightly, possessively, on the back of my chair, his thumb brushing against my shoulder blade in a silent gesture of solidarity.
Matteo chuckled, picking up a silver knife and buttering a brioche roll with agonizing slowness.
“Relax, nephew,” Matteo purred, looking up through heavy-lidded eyes. “We are just welcoming our new niece to the family. After all, it’s not every day a Moretti bride actually survives her first night in the estate. Isn't that right, Elena?”
Elena looked away quickly, a sudden flash of unease crossing her features.
“Speaking of breakfast,” Matteo continued, pouring himself a fresh cup of dark roast coffee from a silver pot, “I asked the kitchen staff to prepare a special traditional Milanese pastry for our guest. A welcoming gift, so to speak.”
He gestured toward a covered silver dome sitting in the center of the table.
Marco, standing near the doorway, stiffened. His hand dropped instinctively toward the holster hidden beneath his suit jacket.
Luca’s grip on the back of my chair tightened so hard I heard the polished mahogany groan under his fingers.
Matteo reached out, his manicured fingers lifting the silver dome.
Beneath it sat a single, beautifully decorated raspberry tart dusted with powdered sugar. It looked identical to the pastries I used to bake in my Chicago shop.
Except for one detail.
A faint, bitter almond aroma drifted off the pastry, cutting through the rich scent of coffee and butter.
Cyanide.
The exact poison used to mimic heart failure in rapid-onset autopsies. The exact poison that had likely ended the lives of the four brides before me.
May you like
Matteo smiled, sliding the plate across the mahogany table directly toward my place setting.
“Go ahead, Sophia,” Matteo invited softly, his eyes glittering with malicious anticipation. “Eat. Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to be a Moretti.”
