Chapter 3 - Poison in the Champagne
The penthouse on Park Avenue was a fortress of glass, black granite, and minimalist luxury. It lacked the warmth of our old upstate estate, featuring bullet-resistant glass that cast a faint bluish hue over the Manhattan skyline and armed security stationed at every elevator bank.
For forty-eight hours, I was treated like a queen in a maximum-security prison. Nico brought in a team of high-end private obstetricians who performed an ultrasound right in the master suite. I lay on the plush examination bed, watching the monochrome monitor as the technician applied warm gel to my skin. Nico stood in the corner of the room, rigid as a statue, his eyes wide and unblinking as the rhythmic, galloping beat of our daughter’s heart filled the quiet room.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
It was the loudest sound in the universe. Nico took a slow, reverent step toward the screen, his fingers unconsciously reaching out toward the pixelated image of the tiny spine, the miniature curled fist resting near her face. For that single hour, the mob boss vanished, replaced by a man looking at the dawn of creation with naked, terrifying humility.
""She’s healthy,"" the doctor announced, wiping the gel from my stomach. ""Strong heart, excellent amniotic fluid. But the mother’s stress levels are elevated. She needs absolute quiet, proper nutrition, and zero excitement for the next three weeks.""
""She will have whatever she needs,"" Nico murmured, not taking his eyes off the sonogram photo the doctor printed out. He took the glossy slip of paper as if it were made of spun gold, his thumb gently tracing the outline of our daughter’s head.
The peace, however, was an illusion that could not survive the poisoned soil of Nico’s world.
On the third evening, the silence was shattered by the arrival of an uninvited guest. The private elevator chimed, and Serena Crane strode into the penthouse foyer, accompanied by an older man with silver hair, a bespoke charcoal suit, and the cold, predatory eyes of a veteran politician.
Arthur Crane. Head of Crane Capital and the behind-the-scenes political architect who kept Nico’s legitimate shipping enterprises clear of federal oversight.
""Nico,"" Arthur said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. ""We need to talk. Now.""
I stood near the dining table, wearing a comfortable cashmere sweater and dark leggings, my hand instinctively resting on my stomach. Serena stood half a step behind her father, her eyes sweeping over me with cold triumph. She held a crystal champagne bucket wrapped in silver ribbon, a bizarrely festive offering for a home on the brink of war.
Nico emerged from his study, his sleeves rolled up, a glass of bourbon in his hand. His gaze darkened the moment he saw Arthur. ""I didn't invite you into my home, Crane.""
""You didn't have to,"" Arthur replied smoothly, stepping past him into the vast living room. ""When you abruptly throw my daughter out of a public boutique and cancel the merger between our logistics networks, you make it my business. We had an agreement, Nico. A strategic alliance. Serena was to be your wife by autumn.""
""The alliance is dead,"" Nico said coldly, taking a slow sip of his bourbon. ""And Serena was never going to be my wife. I used her connections to secure the Port Authority bids, and she used my name to keep her family’s offshore debts from being called in by the Gambino family. We both knew what it was. But my wife is back. Which means the charade is over.""
Serena’s jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening around the neck of the vintage Dom Pérignon bottle she was carrying. ""Your wife was gone for eight months, Nico! She abandoned you! And now she walks back in with a belly that conveniently matches your timeline? Are you truly that blind? Have you even run a paternity test?""
A lethal stillness settled over the room. Nico set his glass down on the marble counter with a sharp, terrifying click.
""If you ever question my daughter’s blood again,"" Nico whispered, the air turning frigid enough to frost glass, ""I will ensure your family’s firm is audited into oblivion by sunrise tomorrow. Now take your father and leave.""
Arthur raised a placating hand, sensing the razor's edge they were dancing on. ""Calm down, Nico. Emotions are running high. Serena spoke out of turn. Let’s celebrate the miraculous return of your wife like civilized people. A truce. For old times' sake.""
Arthur motioned to the champagne bucket Serena had brought. Serena stepped forward, her expression smoothing into an eerie, polished smile. ""Of course. My apologies, Elena. Truly. We all get passionate about family. Let me pour you something sparkling—non-alcoholic cider, of course, imported from Normandy. For the health of the baby.""
She reached into the bucket, pulling out a sealed bottle of sparkling white cider alongside the vintage champagne. She popped the cork with a practiced twist, pouring the pale, bubbling liquid into a crystal flute and handing it across the marble island directly to me.
""To the future of the Vitale line,"" Serena murmured, her eyes glittering with an intensity that set every alarm bell in my body ringing.
I reached out, my fingers brushing the chilled glass. But before the stem could fully clear the counter, a faint, bitter scent drifted upward through the bubbles—an almond-like sharpness that had no business being in Normandy apples.
My father had been a pharmacist before he got tangled with the Caruso crime family. I knew the smell of cyanide derivatives.
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My hand froze.
""Drink it, Elena,"" Serena urged softly, her gaze locked onto mine with manic desperation. ""Let's put the past behind us.""
