Chapter 5 - The Viper at the Dinner Table
The grand dining room of the Marquetti estate was a monument to old-world mafia grandeur.
Crystal chandeliers hung from twenty-foot vaulted ceilings decorated with gold leaf. A roaring fire crackled in the massive limestone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the mahogany banquet table laid out for twelve.
At the head of the table sat Rhett, commanding the room in a charcoal pinstripe three-piece suit. To his left sat Sofia Bellini, radiating icy elegance in black velvet. To his right sat Julian, his neck wrapped in an absurd silk cravat designed to conceal the purple bruises Rhett’s fingers had left on his throat that morning.
The remaining seats were occupied by the syndicate’s top four capos—hard-faced men in their fifties and sixties who controlled the narcotics, labor unions, gaming, and extortion rings across Massachusetts and Rhode Island.
And standing directly behind Rhett’s right shoulder, dressed in a sharp black tailored blazer, pristine white blouse, and dark trousers, was Winnie Doyle.
Every man at that table had spent the last hour staring at her.
They were confused. Uncomfortable. In their world, women were either decorative ornaments like Sofia, worn on the arm to display wealth, or invisible domestic servants who disappeared into the shadows. Winnie was neither. She stood tall, her curves unapologetically visible beneath the sharp lines of her suit, her hazel-brown eyes scanning every movement around the table like a hawk.
Winnie had personally overseen every course.
The roasted lamb had been carved under her direct supervision. The wines had been brought up from the cellar in unbroken wooden crates, the wax seals cut open with her own pocketknife.
“The dock strike in Boston is settled,” Don Moretti, the oldest capo, announced through a mouthful of lamb. “The longshoremen took the three-percent increase. We keep our twenty percent skim off the midnight containers.”
“Good,” Rhett said, cutting a small piece of meat on his plate. He hadn't touched his wine. Only the crystal glass of plain sparkling water Winnie had poured for him sat beside his fork.
Julian cleared his throat, leaning forward. His eyes flicked toward Sofia, a subtle, almost imperceptible exchange of glances that Winnie caught instantly from her vantage point behind Rhett.
“Now that business is steady,” Julian said smoothly, “we should talk about the succession protocol, Rhett. Given... your unexpected episode last night.”
The table went completely dead silent. The scraping of silverware ceased.
Rhett set his knife down with meticulous care. “My episode, Julian?”
“We’re a multi-million-dollar organization, brother,” Julian pressed, emboldened by the presence of the capos. “If you have an underlying medical condition—epilepsy, cardiovascular failure—the board needs to establish an emergency power of attorney. Sofia’s father agrees. We can't have the empire frozen because the boss is bedridden.”
“Rhett is not bedridden,” Sofia chimed in, offering a dazzling, sympathetic smile that didn't reach her cold blue eyes. “He’s simply under an immense amount of stress. That’s why I asked the kitchen to prepare something special for him tonight. A traditional Tuscan restorative dessert—almond cream with poached pears. My grandmother’s recipe.”
Two junior footmen entered the dining room carrying silver trays.
One tray held a delicate crystal bowl filled with rich, ivory-colored cream, topped with a glistening poached pear and dusted with crushed nuts. The footman approached Rhett’s side of the table, preparing to lower the bowl onto his charger plate.
Winnie’s senses screamed.
She stepped forward before the porcelain touched the wood.
“Stop,” Winnie said.
The entire dining room froze. Don Moretti’s fork halted halfway to his mouth. The footman paused, trembling, looking terrified between the boss and the woman at his shoulder.
Sofia’s eyes flashed with venomous rage. “Excuse me? What do you think you’re doing?”
“Mr. Marquetti will not be having the dessert,” Winnie stated calmly, stepping directly into the space between Rhett and the server.
“Rhett!” Sofia gasped, turning to him with wounded outrage. “Are you going to let your maid humiliate me in front of your council? This is an insult to my family!”
Rhett didn't look at Sofia. He tilted his head slightly back, looking up into Winnie’s eyes.
“Why, Winnie?” Rhett asked. His voice was utterly level, but underneath lay a terrifying, coiled intensity.
Winnie didn't hesitate. She pointed at the bowl.
“The almond extract is too heavy. Bitter almonds have a distinct aroma, but this is masking something sweeter. It smells like concentrated nerium oleander—oleandrin. It grows in the estate’s ornamental greenhouse. It takes less than two drops of leaf extract mixed into heavy cream to cause lethal cardiac arrhythmia within twenty minutes. It mimics an acute heart attack. It leaves almost no trace in a standard autopsy.”
Julian’s face went pasty white. He knocked his water glass over, the ice cubes spilling across the linen tablecloth. “This is insane! She’s an unhinged cleaner playing doctor! Rhett, have this lunatic removed!”
“Shut up, Julian,” Rhett commanded.
Rhett rose slowly from his seat. He stood at his full, imposing height, his shadow swallowing Julian across the table.
Rhett looked down at the delicate crystal bowl. Then he looked at Sofia.
“It’s your grandmother’s recipe, Sofia?” Rhett asked softly.
Sofia swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. “Rhett... I had nothing to do with—I merely suggested—”
Rhett picked up the silver dessert spoon. He scooped a generous portion of the ivory cream and the glistening pear. He turned to Julian.
“Eat it,” Rhett said.
Julian backed his chair away, the legs screeching against the parquet floor. “What? No! Rhett, you’re crazy!”
“I said eat it, brother,” Rhett repeated, his voice dropping into the terrifying register of an executioner. “If it’s just almond cream and pear, you have nothing to fear. Eat the spoon, Julian. Prove to our capos that Miss Doyle is an unhinged cleaner.”
Julian stared at the trembling spoon in Rhett’s hand. Sweat broke out across his forehead, dripping down his temple into his collar. He looked at Sofia, begging for an intervention with his eyes.
Sofia looked away, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall, completely abandoning him.
Julian turned and bolted.
He shoved his heavy dining chair backward, sending it crashing to the floor, and lunged for the side exit leading to the terrace.
“Take him,” Rhett said.
Before Julian could reach the French doors, two North End enforcers who had been standing guard in the corridor burst through, tackling Julian to the floor with bone-crushing force. Julian screamed, cursing, thrashing like a landed fish as the guards drove their knees into his spine and cuffed his hands behind his back with heavy steel zip-ties.
The capos sat frozen in absolute, paralyzed shock.
Rhett casually dropped the silver spoon back into the crystal bowl.
He turned his gaze toward Sofia Bellini. She sat rigid as a corpse, her hands trembling in her lap, the emerald dress suddenly looking like a shroud.
“Dr. Silas,” Rhett called out toward the antechamber.
The physician stepped forward, carrying a portable evidence kit.
“Seal the dessert,” Rhett ordered. “Have the state forensic lab in Boston run a full toxicological screen by midnight. If there is a single molecule of oleander in that cream, Don Bellini will receive his daughter’s luggage at sunrise—and her freedom will cost him fifty million dollars and every dock permit north of Salem.”
Rhett turned to Winnie. In front of the four most powerful capos in New England, Rhett reached out, took Winnie’s hand in his, and raised it to his lips, kissing the knuckles she had bruised kicking his door open.
May you like
“Miss Doyle,” Rhett murmured, his hazel eyes burning with fierce, unyielding devotion. “It seems you’ve saved my life twice in twenty-four hours. Let’s go upstairs. This dining room has an unbearable stench.”
***
