Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Glass
Dante was across the room in two strides, catching his mother’s trembling hands in his own. His brow furrowed as he tried to decipher her frantic hand movements, but her speed was far too rapid for his rudimentary understanding of sign language.
"Nora," Dante barked over his shoulder, his voice crackling with sudden urgency. "Translate. Every single word."
I rushed forward, positioning myself directly between mother and son. Rosa’s eyes locked onto mine, her breath ragged. Her fingers were shaking, but the clarity of her signs was razor-sharp.
I saw Vance’s assistant near the private service pantry five minutes ago, I translated rapidly, speaking aloud for Dante while reflecting Rosa’s signs with quick movements of my own hands. He wasn't carrying wine. He had a small amber vial. He slipped it into the commemorative reserve decanter set aside for Dante’s keynote toast.
Dante’s jaw tightened until the tendons in his neck stood out like iron cables. He looked at the guard stationed at the door. "Marco. Lock down the catering staff. No one leaves the kitchen. Cut the ballroom sound system on my mark."
"Understood, Boss," the guard answered, touching his earpiece and vanishing into the hallway.
Dante turned back to his mother, gently cupping her wrinkled face in his large, scarred hands. He signed three simple, clumsy signs: I am safe. You are brave.
A tear escaped Rosa’s eye and traced down her cheek. She pulled him close for a brief, fierce embrace before stepping back and looking at me. Stay beside him, Nora, she signed with pleading eyes. They want him dead because he is trying to legitimize our family's businesses. If Dante falls, the vultures will tear this entire city apart.
"We return to the ballroom," Dante commanded, smoothing his lapels, his expression once again transformed into stone. "Miss Callahan, you stay directly behind my left shoulder. If Vance or anyone near him makes an unusual gesture or tries to leave, sign it directly into my palm. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Vitale," I said, steeling my nerves.
We re-entered the grand ballroom just as the master of ceremonies took the stage to announce the host of the evening. The crowd erupted into polite applause as Dante strode through the double doors, radiating power and ease as though nothing were amiss. I walked two paces behind him, my eyes scanning every waiter, every tray, and every shadow in the perimeter.
Near the front of the stage, Julian Vance stood holding a silver tray upon which sat two crystal glasses filled with dark red wine. Beside him stood Councilman Thomas, smiling broadly for the social photographers. Vance’s eyes darted toward Dante, a flash of predatory anticipation gleaming behind his designer spectacles.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Vance’s amplified voice boomed over the speakers as Dante approached the podium. "To our generous host, Dante Vitale. A man whose vision for Chicago’s maritime commerce will reshape our city for generations to come."
Vance stepped forward, offering the heavier crystal glass directly to Dante with an deferential bow.
I watched Vance's left hand. As he extended the drink, his little finger tapped twice against the stem of the glass—a deliberate, nervous tell. I stepped closer, reached down, and discreetly pressed my fingers against Dante’s open left palm, forming the rapid sign for Trap.
Dante didn't flinch. He smiled politely, accepting the glass with his right hand. The room raised their glasses in unison, waiting for their host to drink.
Dante raised the glass toward the lights, watching the deep crimson liquid swirl against the crystal facets. "A beautiful toast, Julian," Dante said into the microphone, his deep baritone rolling over the quiet room. "A toast to loyalty. And to the men who stand by us through every storm."
He lowered the glass, but instead of bringing it to his lips, he extended it back toward Julian.
"Drink it with me, my friend," Dante said softly, his smile vanishing entirely. "To our enduring partnership."
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Vance froze. The color drained from his face in a sickening wave, leaving him looking like a corpse in a tuxedo. "Dante... my doctor... you know I don't drink red wine before midnight—"
"Drink it," Dante repeated. This time, the microphone picked up the lethal chill in his voice. The entire room fell into an uncomfortable, absolute silence.
