Chapter 1 - The Silver Plate and the Poisoned Vow
“DON'T EAT THAT, SIR!”
My voice shattered the elegant silence of the Moretti mansion's grand dining hall.
Thirty-two wealthy guests turned toward me. A violinist stopped playing mid-stroke, the screech of bow against string cutting through the room like a razor blade. A waiter froze beside a towering marble column, silver champagne bucket trembling in his grip until ice clinked against crystal.
And the most feared Mafia boss in Chicago slowly lowered the fork he had been raising toward his mouth.
I stood beside his high-backed chair, clutching a heavy porcelain dinner plate with both hands. My knuckles were stark white. My heart was pounding so violently against my ribs that I could hear blood rushing in my ears. Across the mahogany table, his beautiful fiancée stared at me with undisguised fury.
“PUT THAT PLATE DOWN, EMMA!”
Her voice was like a whip cracking across the stillness. But I couldn't obey. Not after what I'd seen. Not after the strange green leaf I'd noticed tucked beneath the dark mushroom sauce. And certainly not after watching Vanessa Bellini deliberately exchange her dinner plate with the man she was supposed to marry in less than two weeks.
My name is Emma Reed. I'm twenty-seven years old, with long blonde hair tied in a neat, restrained knot, fair skin, and blue eyes that usually stayed trained on the carpet. I worked as a third-shift housemaid inside Luca Moretti's fortress-like Chicago estate on Lake Shore Drive. I wore a simple black maid's dress with an immaculate white apron. I dusted priceless oil paintings, polished gold hardware, served caviar to oligarchs, and did everything humanly possible to remain invisible.
I wasn't important. I wasn't rich. I was just a young woman trying to keep her dying father alive. Eight months ago, my dad, Thomas Reed, suffered a massive ischemic stroke. It stole his ability to walk and left him with severe aphasia. His rehabilitation facility cost forty-two hundred dollars a month. His blood thinners and physical therapy drained every single cent I earned. Every shift, every spilled glass cleaned, every dime of tip money was the thin wire holding him to this world. If I lost this job, my father would be evicted from the facility within forty-eight hours.
Yet here I was, committing social suicide in front of the ruling elite of the Midwestern underworld. Because Luca Moretti might have been a ruthless syndicate boss whose name made grown men sweat through their custom suits, but the monster threatening him tonight wasn't an assassin in the shadows. It was the woman sitting beside him, dripping in Harry Winston diamonds.
Twenty minutes before the guests were seated, the commercial kitchen had been running like an engine room. Chef Antonio had barked instructions at me while shoving two tickets into my apron pocket. Mr. Moretti had strict dietary preferences—plain grilled Chilean sea bass, no butter, no sauce. Vanessa Bellini had ordered chicken breast smothered in Madeira wild mushroom reduction.
I had double-checked the plates myself. But when I stood behind the marble column with a tray of fresh flutes, I caught Vanessa's reflection in the bevelled glass mirror across the room. She had waited until Luca turned his head to speak to a senator. She had slid a velvet-lined silver compact from her designer purse, pinched several jagged green leaves between her acrylic nails, and shoved them deep into the chicken's gravy. Then, with the fluid grace of a magician, she had swapped the plates, dragging the chicken in front of Luca and pulling the fish toward her own seat.
When Luca had lifted his fork, I hadn't thought about my rent. I hadn't thought about my resume. I had only thought about the pure malice in Vanessa’s eyes.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” Vanessa stood up, her emerald gown catching the chandelier light. She looked around the long table, offering the horrified billionaires an apologetic, patronizing laugh. “Forgive her, everyone. She’s just a desperate little maid desperate for attention. Put the plate down, Emma. You clean floors for eight dollars above minimum wage. You don't get to disrupt an executive banquet.”
Several guests murmured in amusement. An oil tycoon from Texas chuckled into his glass.
Then, a deep, raspy baritone cut through the laughter. “Vanessa.”
Luca Moretti didn't raise his voice, but the entire room fell dead quiet. He sat back in his chair, his six-foot-four muscular frame filling the space effortlessly. Black sleeve tattoos crawled up his wrists, winding around the tendons of his hands. His storm-grey eyes locked onto me.
“Let her speak,” Luca said quietly. Then he looked up at me. “Explain yourself, Emma.”
My voice shook, but I forced every syllable out clearly. “Sir, your fiancée switched your meal with hers five minutes ago. Your order was the plain sea bass. Miss Bellini’s order was the chicken with Madeira reduction.”
“She’s lying!” Vanessa screeched, slamming her manicured hands onto the table. “She’s trying to create drama! Why would anyone listen to a maid over your future wife?”
Without a word, I pulled the two kitchen tickets from my pocket and laid them on the dark mahogany wood. Then, using a clean silver spoon from the side cart, I peeled back the thick mushroom sauce on the chicken. Nestled against the meat were three waxy, serrated green leaves. They looked nothing like rosemary, sage, or basil.
Luca leaned forward. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He had survived three street wars and two car bombs; he knew when death was being served on a plate.
“Where is your purse, Vanessa?” Luca asked, his voice dropping an octave into pure ice.
“Luca, darling, don't indulge this nonsense—”
“BRING ME HER PURSE,” Luca commanded.
Two massive security guards in charcoal suits moved instantly. One grabbed Vanessa’s designer clutch from her chair before she could lunge for it. Vanessa’s face drained of every drop of color. When Luca snatched the purse, his thick fingers unzipped the inner lining and pulled out a small antique silver pillbox. Inside lay an identical bundle of crushed green leaves.
A collective gasp swept through thirty-two millionaires.
“Secure the dining room,” Luca commanded his head of security, Marco. “Nobody leaves this property until our toxicologist clears the room. Lock the gates.”
Vanessa began to cry, dropping to her knees beside his chair. “Luca, please! It’s a health supplement! It’s natural medicine from Europe for my anxiety! I didn't mean anything by it!”
“You put your medicine under my sauce?” Luca asked, towering over her as he stood up. “And swapped your plate when my back was turned?”
Before she could invent another lie, her phone, which had tumbled onto the table during the commotion, lit up. The screen buzzed violently against the wood.
A banner notification appeared across the lock screen. The sender was saved simply as 'D.V.'
The preview text was crystal clear: “Did the bastard swallow the foxglove yet? The transfers are queued. Once his heart stops, call the coroner on our payroll. Chicago belongs to us tonight, baby.”
The silence in the dining room became suffocating. Luca picked up the phone. His grey eyes went wide for a fraction of a second—not from fear, but from the sudden recognition of that monogram. 'D.V.' Dante Vance. The exiled head of the North Side Syndicate, Luca’s bitterest rival, whom everyone assumed had fled to South America three years ago.
Luca turned his head toward Vanessa. The softness he had occasionally shown her over the last six months vanished forever, replaced by the lethal aura of the underworld king he was. “Take her to the cellar,” he told Marco calmly. “Call Dr. Evans to analyze the leaves. And ensure Miss Bellini is kept alive until I decide what to do with her.”
Two guards dragged the screaming heiress out of the room, her designer heels scraping uselessly against the polished floorboards.
Luca turned back to the trembling girl in the white apron. He walked over until he stood inches away from me. I held my breath, terrified that in the brutal logic of his world, witnesses were as dangerous as traitors.
“You have a steady hand, Emma,” Luca murmured, his gaze penetrating right through me. “And very sharp eyes. Marco tells me your father is Thomas Reed. The former city surveyor?”
My eyes widened. “You know my father?”
May you like
Luca’s expression softened into something inscrutable. “More than you know. Tomorrow morning, you report to my private study on the third floor. You don't carry trays anymore.”
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