Chapter 1 - The Poisoned Goblet
"Uncle Lorenzo, the pretty lady in the white dress said she's going to throw me in the river if Mommy doesn't lie to you tonight."
Those words still echoed inside my skull as I sat across from Vivien at the twenty-foot mahogany dining table.
The crystal chandelier above us cast a warm, golden glow over the roasted lamb and vintage Bordeaux, making everything look like a picture of billionaire domestic bliss.
Vivien smiled at me over the rim of her wineglass.
"You've barely touched your food, Lorenzo," she said softly, her voice dripping with practiced concern. "Are you still worried about the Chicago harbor merger?"
"Just a lot of moving parts," I lied smoothly, cutting a piece of meat I had no intention of eating. "My mind is on the family."
"As it should be," she murmured, reaching across the corner of the table to cover my hand with hers.
Her skin was warm. Her diamond engagement ring—my grandmother’s heirloom—sparkled against her finger.
Three hours ago, that ring looked like a promise. Now, it looked like a shackle.
Just then, the swinging door to the butler’s pantry opened.
Elena walked in, carrying a silver coffee service.
Her eyes were glued to the Persian rug. Even from ten feet away, I could see the violent tremor in her wrists as she set the porcelain cups down.
Vivien didn't even look at her, yet the air in the dining room instantly froze.
"Elena," Vivien said, her tone light and musical, yet sharp enough to draw blood. "Didn't you tell me earlier that you had something important to share with Mr. Duca?"
Elena froze. Her breath hitched.
I leaned back in my chair, swirling my wine, watching the maid’s reflection in the polished silver teapot.
"Is that true, Elena?" I asked, keeping my voice intentionally gentle. "Do you have something to tell me?"
Elena looked up. For a fraction of a second, her terrified brown eyes met mine.
She didn't know I had been outside my mother's bedroom door. She didn't know Mia had led me by the finger to hear Vivien's threats. All she knew was that a ruthless woman was holding her three-year-old daughter’s life hostage.
"Mr. Duca," Elena whispered, her voice cracking like thin ice. "Before... before Señora Isabella had her stroke three months ago..."
"Yes?" I prompted softly.
Vivien took a slow sip of her wine, watching Elena over the glass like a cobra waiting to strike.
"She told me how much she loved Miss Vivien," Elena choked out, a single tear slipping down her pale cheek. "She said... she said she gave the marriage her full blessing and wanted you to transfer the Tuscany vineyards into Miss Vivien's name as a wedding gift."
Every muscle in my jaw locked.
My mother hated giving up land. The Tuscany estate had been in the Duca bloodline since 1890. She would sooner burn those vines to ash than sign them over to an outsider before a wedding even took place.
"Is that so?" I said, looking directly at Vivien.
"Oh, Lorenzo," Vivien sighed, dabbing the corner of her completely dry eye with a linen napkin. "I told Elena not to burden you with that tonight, not while Isabella is still so fragile upstairs. Your mother was just being generous."
"Thank you, Elena," I said, shifting my gaze back to the trembling mother. "Go upstairs and check on Mia. Make sure the nursery doors are locked tight tonight. The wind is picking up."
Elena’s eyes widened slightly at my specific choice of words. She gave a jerky nod and hurried out of the room.
Once we were alone, Vivien stood up and walked behind my chair, wrapping her silk-clad arms around my neck and pressing her cheek against mine.
"Drink your wine, baby," she whispered into my ear. "You need to sleep deeply tonight."
I looked down at my crystal goblet. Earlier, when Elena had dropped a spoon in the hallway, I had turned my head for three seconds.
When I excused myself ten minutes later, claiming I needed documents from my study, I didn't swallow the last mouthful of wine. I spat it into a glass vial inside my locked desk drawer.
Rocco was already waiting in the shadows by the bookcase.
"Boss," Rocco said grimly, handing me a tablet. "The preliminary pharmacy logs came back."
"Show me," I ordered, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
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"Your mother’s stroke three months ago wasn't natural," Rocco said, his voice dropping to a lethal growl. "And we just found a deleted security clip from the night she collapsed. Vivien wasn't in Milan like she claimed. She was in the kitchen, dissolving something into your mother’s evening tea—and she wasn't alone."
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