Chapter 3 - THE FAMILY DINNER
By noon, the atmosphere inside the Lake Forest mansion had shifted from anxious silence to tense preparation. Cars were arriving at the front gate—blacked-out sedans creeping up the winding brick driveway beneath the gray Autumn sky.
I stayed in Dante’s bedroom, meticulously constructing a fake medical narrative. I emptied half-used vials of saline into the sink, scattered clean gauze around the waste bin, and left a blood pressure cuff draped over the bedpost. Dante remained in character, maintaining a weak, shallow breath every time a footstep echoed outside the door.
At precisely twelve-fifteen, the door opened without a knock.
Matteo Moretti stepped into the room.
He looked strikingly like Dante, but softened by luxury. Where Dante’s features were sharp, chiseled, and weathered by decades of street violence, Matteo possessed the smooth, refined look of a corporate executive. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, and gold cufflinks that caught the ambient light.
“Dante,” Matteo called out softly, walking toward the bed with an expression of deep sorrow.
Dante let out a faint groan, barely opening his eyes. “Matteo...”
Matteo sat on the velvet bench at the foot of the bed, taking his brother’s weak hand into both of his own. “Look at you, brother. What are these doctors doing to you? They’re killing you with these useless treatments.”
“She’s... trying,” Dante rasped, pointing a shaking finger toward me.
Matteo turned his gaze toward me for the first time. His eyes were pale blue, assessing and calculated. “Ah. The apothecary’s granddaughter from Brooklyn. Leo told me he brought you here. I hope you aren't filling my brother’s head with foolish hopes, Ms. Rossi.”
“I don't deal in hope, Mr. Moretti,” I said, wiping a glass beaker with a clean cloth. “I deal in cellular preservation. Your brother’s liver and kidneys are failing. My only job is to keep his suffering to a minimum.”
Matteo sighed, standing up and buttoning his jacket. “A Noble task. But a futile one. Dante has carried the weight of the Moretti family on his shoulders for thirty years. His body is simply giving out under the strain.”
He walked over to the side table—straight toward the crystal decanter.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my hands steady as I re-arranged my instruments.
Matteo reached out and lifted the decanter by its neck. He tilted it slightly, checking the level of the amber liquid inside. “He hasn't touched his scotch today?”
“I advised against it,” I said quickly. “Alcohol will accelerate his organ failure.”
Matteo smiled—a soft, sad smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Dante never turned down a glass of Macallan in his life. Even on his deathbed, he deserves his comfort.”
He picked up two crystal tumblers from the tray. He poured two fingers of scotch into each glass, his movements fluid and rehearsed. He walked back to the bedside, holding one glass out toward Dante.
“One last drink between brothers, Dante,” Matteo said softly. “For the old days in Little Italy.”
Dante looked at the glass. I saw the muscles along his jaw tighten—a microscopic pulse of pure rage that only someone standing directly beside him could notice.
“I can’t... hold it, Matteo,” Dante whispered, his hand trembling violently as he reached out.
“Let me help you,” Matteo offered, leaning down and bringing the glass toward Dante’s cracked lips.
“Stop!” I stepped forward, putting myself directly between Matteo and the bed.
Matteo stopped, his eyebrows rising in polite surprise. “Is there a problem, Ms. Rossi?”
“If he drinks concentrated alcohol right now, his esophagus will spasm and he will choke,” I lied firmly, staring him down. “If you want to kill your brother today, go ahead and force that down his throat. Otherwise, step back.”
The silence in the room stretched until it felt like a drawn bowstring.
Matteo looked down at the glass in his hand, then back up at me. The sadness in his face vanished for a brief, terrifying second, replaced by a cold, calculating emptiness.
“You take your job very seriously, Ms. Rossi,” Matteo said quietly.
“I take my patient’s survival seriously,” I replied. “That’s what I was paid for.”
Matteo slowly withdrew the glass and took a small sip from it himself.
My breath caught in my throat. He drank it?
If the decanter was poisoned, why would Matteo drink from the same bottle? Was he immune? Or was the poison added after the Scotch left the decanter?
Matteo set the glass down on the bedside table and patted Dante’s leg. “Rest, brother. The capos are assembling downstairs in the library. They want answers about the succession. I’ll handle them so you can sleep.”
He turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
The moment the lock engaged, Dante sat straight up in bed, his chest heaving as he stared at the glass Matteo had left behind.
“He drank it,” Dante hissed, his voice raspy but full of fury. “You saw him! He drank from the same liquor!”
“He drank from his glass,” I corrected, rushing over to the table. I picked up the glass Matteo had offered to Dante and the one Matteo had drunk from.
I pulled a small test tube from my kit containing a solution of silver nitrate and hydrochloric acid—a crude but effective field reagent for detecting heavy metals. I drew a sample from Dante’s glass with a pipette and dropped it into the reagent.
The liquid instantly turned a murky, milky white.
I then drew a sample from the glass Matteo had drunk from and added the reagent.
The liquid remained perfectly clear.
May you like
Dante watched the reaction, his eyes widening. “How?”
“He didn't poison the bottle,” I whispered, cold realization washing over me. “The bottle is fine. The poison is coated on the inside of your specific crystal glass.”
