Chapter 3 - The Cold Poison in the Tea
Determined to prove that I wasn't just a decorative fixture, I threw myself into running the Moretti household. I spent hours learning Italian recipes from the kitchen staff, planning healthy, colorful meals that made the twins smile, and reorganizing the mansion's vast library into a cozy sanctuary where Mia and Chloe could play without fear.
The staff quickly realized that beneath my soft exterior was a woman of unwavering warmth and kindness. Unlike the late Isabella, who was notorious for throwing tantrums and firing maids over spilled champagne, I treated every butler, maid, and gardener with genuine respect. Within a week, the staff would have walked through fire for me.
Except for one person: Teresa, the newly promoted assistant housekeeper and a loyal cousin of the disgraced Mrs. Gable.
Teresa walked with her eyes cast downward, pretending to be humble, but whenever I turned my back, I caught the bitter venom lurking in her gaze. She blamed me for her cousin’s ruin, and as I soon discovered, she had secretly been placed on Victoria Sterling’s payroll.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, a week before the court evaluator was scheduled to arrive, I sat in the glass solarium helping Mia and Chloe paint watercolors. Vincent was in downtown Chicago handling an urgent syndicate meeting.
Teresa entered carrying a silver tray with a pot of chamomile tea and freshly baked lemon scones.
""Ma'am,"" Teresa said, bowing politely. ""I prepared your favorite herbal tea to help you relax before the girls' afternoon nap.""
""Thank you, Teresa,"" I smiled, dipping my paintbrush into a cup of water. ""That’s very thoughtful of you.""
She set the porcelain cup beside my elbow and backed away toward the doorway, lingering just a bit too long, her knuckles white against her apron.
Mia, who was painting a bright yellow sun, suddenly bumped her small hand against my elbow. The porcelain cup wobbled and tipped over, spilling hot, fragrant tea across the glass tabletop and dripping down onto the stone floor.
""Oh, sweetie, be careful,"" I chuckled softly, reaching for a napkin.
At that exact moment, Brutus, one of Vincent’s massive guard dogs—a gentle Cane Corso who adored the children—trotted into the sunroom. Hearing the commotion, the dog innocently began licking up the spilled puddle of chamomile tea from the floor.
""Brutus, no!"" I scolded playfully. ""That's not for you.""
Within two minutes, the dog whimpered.
Mia gasped, pointing at the animal. Brutus began to sway on his heavy paws, thick white foam bubbling from his jowls. His legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the stone tiles, seizing violently as blood-tinged vomit escaped his mouth.
Terror seized my lungs. The girls began to scream in silent, wordless panic, clutching each other against my side.
""GUARDS!"" I bellowed at the top of my lungs, my voice echoing off the glass walls. ""MARCO! CALL THE VET! LOCK DOWN THE GATES NOW!""
Marco, the head of Vincent’s security detail, burst into the room with his pistol drawn. Within seconds, the compound was in full red-alert mode. The house veterinarian arrived within ten minutes, administering emergency charcoal and atropine to the dog, while security forces tackled Teresa as she attempted to sprint toward the service gate with an envelope containing fifty thousand dollars in cash.
When the lab analysis came back, the vet’s face was grim.
""Arsenic,"" he reported grimly. ""A concentrated dose mixed into the tea leaves. If Mrs. Moretti had swallowed half that cup, she would have suffered massive organ failure and died in agony within four hours.""
I collapsed onto the sofa, shaking so hard my teeth chattered. Mia and Chloe climbed into my lap, burying their wet faces into my neck, their little bodies trembling with primal terror. They had almost lost another mother.
An hour later, the heavy front doors were violently thrown open.
Vincent charged inside. His coat was drenched in rain, his eyes wild with a feral, terrifying rage that made even his hardened armed soldiers take a step back.
He didn't look at the guards. He didn't look at the captured traitor in handcuffs. He ran straight across the room, dropped to his knees before my chair, and pulled me and both of his daughters into his crushing, desperate embrace.
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""Evelyn,"" he breathed against my hair, his voice breaking with raw, undisguised terror. ""My God... Evelyn.""
For the first time since I met him, the terrifying Don of Chicago was shaking like a leaf.
