At 9:17 P.M., I was the only waitress brave enough to approach table four, where Boston’s most feared mafia boss was slowly dying in front of everyone.

After Lorenzo departed under heavy escort, the tension inside the mansion became suffocating. Dominic spent the afternoon locked in conference calls with his shipping lieutenants and port authorities.

I wandered down to the expansive commercial-grade kitchen, unable to sit still. Baking had always been my therapy. When my mother was at her sickest, the smell of fresh vanilla and proofing yeast in our cramped apartment had been the only thing keeping despair at bay.

Elena, the housekeeper, was chopping herbs near the marble island.

"Elena, please," I said, offering a weak smile. "Let me make something. Bread, scones, anything. If I keep sitting in that room watching the ocean, I’m going to lose my mind."

Elena looked hesitant, then stepped back with a warm chuckle. "The pantry is yours, child. The boss rarely eats anything not tested by his security team, but heaven knows this house could use the smell of something sweet."

For two hours, I lost myself in the rhythm of kneading dough, folding butter, and dusting flour across the polished stone. I made a batch of lemon-thyme brioche rolls, the golden crusts rising perfectly in the high-end ovens.

As I pulled the hot trays out, Marco walked into the kitchen, his brow furrowed.

"Miss Henderson. Mr. Romano requested tea in the library."

"I can take it to him," I offered. "And bring him a fresh roll. He hasn't eaten since yesterday."

Marco hesitated, then nodded. "I'll let security know you're crossing the central gallery."

I set a vintage porcelain teapot and two cups on a silver tray alongside a plate of warm brioche. I carried the tray through the portrait-lined gallery toward the massive double doors of the private library.

As I turned the corner, I noticed one of the kitchen staff—a young man with a discreet dragon tattoo on his wrist whom I hadn't seen earlier—stepping out of the library service pantry. When our eyes met, he flinched, quickly lowering his head and hurrying toward the back stairs.

A knot formed in my stomach.

I paused outside the library door, looking down at the tray.

Beside the teapot was a small silver creamer filled with fresh milk that the young man had apparently set out. A faint, barely perceptible film floated on the surface of the dairy. It looked like an iridescent sheen of oil.

*Concentrated thallium nitrate.*

My hands began to shake. Dominic’s words echoed in my ears: *They have eyes inside.*

I kicked the library door open with a loud thud.

Dominic looked up sharply from a mahogany desk piled with blueprints and ledgers, his hand instantly clearing the holster beneath his arm.

"Chloe?"

"Don't touch the tray," I whispered, setting it down hard on a side table.

Dominic rose immediately, his eyes assessing my pale face. "What happened?"

"The kitchen boy with the dragon tattoo on his wrist. He was just outside this door. Look at the cream."

Dominic stepped around the desk, his expression darkening into an expression of sheer murderous wrath. He pulled an electronic testing strip from his pocket—a precaution he now carried everywhere—and dipped the tip into the milk.

Within two seconds, the strip flashed bright purple. Lethal neurotoxin.

Dominic slammed his fist onto the table, the silver tray rattling. "Marco!" he roared through his comms. "Lock down the southern exit! Detain the boy on the pantry service detail—now!"

Sirens began to wail throughout the estate’s interior corridors.

Dominic turned back to me. His breath came heavy, his broad chest rising and falling. He closed the distance between us in three strides, his large hands cupping my shoulders, checking me frantically.

"Did you touch it? Did you drink anything?"

"No," I breathed, looking up into his storm-grey eyes. "No, I just saw the surface. I recognized the shine."

Dominic pulled me against him, wrapping his massive arms around my shoulders, tucking my head against his neck. He was trembling—not with fear, but with a fierce, possessive fury that took my breath away.

"He tried to kill you in my own home," Dominic whispered, his voice vibrating with dangerous intent. "They tried to use you to finish what they started at table four."