Chapter 8 - The Dinner Table Trap
By midnight, the storm had moved offshore, leaving a thick, suffocating mist that clung to the estate’s shattered gardens.
The main dining room was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of twenty tall beeswax candles. The broken glass had been swept away. The bodies had been loaded into unmarked vans and driven to the industrial incinerators down at the docks.
The grand mahogany table was set once again for four.
At the head of the table sat Adrian Moretti, wearing a fresh charcoal suit, his hair slicked back, a tumbler of amber scotch resting comfortably beside his right hand.
To his left and right sat two men who had been summoned urgently by his personal messengers: Uncle Carlo, the oldest surviving member of the family commission, and Matteo Moretti, whose tailored silk tie was slightly crooked and whose eyes darted nervously across the room.
"I don't understand the urgency, Adrian," Matteo said, attempting a warm, affectionate smile that failed to reach his eyes. "You said there was an emergency security breach? Why haven't the police been called? Why are we eating dinner in candlelight like savages?"
"The police ask too many questions, Matteo," Adrian said smoothly, swirling the liquor in his glass. "And family matters should always remain within the family."
Carlo, an old man with deep wrinkles and heavy silver rings, grunted in agreement. "Adrian is right. If rivals hit the compound, we strike back tonight. Who was it? The Valentis?"
"No," Adrian replied, taking a slow, leisurely sip of his scotch. "It wasn't the Valentis. It was someone closer. Someone who knew which glass I drank from. Someone who paid a team of professionals half a million dollars to slip a microscopic layer of poison onto my rim."
Matteo’s hand, resting on the white linen tablecloth, twitched noticeably.
"Poison?" Matteo laughed nervously. "That's absurd. You have security sweeps twice a week."
"I do," Adrian agreed. "But security sweeps only look for metal and gunpowder. They don't look for things that change slowly over time. Like a wire behind a painting. Or a glass that doesn't have a little moon."
Adrian snapped his fingers.
The library doors swung open, and Silvio stepped out, escorting Grace and Lily.
Lily walked with quiet composure, holding a small wooden box in her hands. She walked directly to the table and stopped next to Matteo’s chair.
"Good evening, Uncle Matteo," Lily said in her sweet, childish voice.
Matteo stared at the little girl, his face draining of all color until he looked like a walking corpse.
"Who... who is this child?" Matteo stammered.
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"This is the girl who saw you, Matteo," Adrian said, his voice dropping into the icy stillness of an executioner. "She saw you visiting the pantry with your little gray bag. And she brought you a gift."
***
