“You’re Not Blind, You’re Being Poisoned,” the Maid Whispered—Then the Mafia Boss Learned the Hand Filling His Glass Belonged to the Man He Trusted Most

"Clean it up, Maya," Gideon said instantly, his tone flat, completely detached. He let go of my wrist and turned his back toward the door. "Iris will inspect the floor in ten minutes."

"Yes, Mr. Vitali," I said loudly enough for the door to carry.

Gideon called out, "Come in, Marcus."

The heavy oak door swung open, and Marcus Cole stepped inside. He was thirty-five, sharp-featured, dressed in a custom charcoal suit with an expensive platinum watch gleaming on his left wrist. His dark eyes scanned the room in half a second, taking in the shattered crystal on the floor, the puddle of amber liquid, and me on my knees with a cloth.

"What happened?" Marcus asked, stepping over the threshold, his gaze lingering on me with mild distaste. "Did the girl spill your drink?"

"Clumsy," Gideon said calmly, walking to the mantelpiece and tracing the carved wood with his fingers, maintaining the facade of a man whose world was fading into shadows. "She bumped the table with her tray. Ruined twenty-year-old scotch."

"I apologize, sir," I mumbled, keeping my head bowed, scrubbing furiously at the floor. In my pocket, wrapped inside a heavy plastic sandwich bag I had stolen from the pantry, sat three soaked shards of crystal containing enough concentrated residue to run a full mass spectrometer test.

Marcus chuckled softly, walking up behind Gideon and patting his shoulder with familiar warmth. "Don't sweat it, brother. We’ve got twenty more bottles in the cellar. Let Iris replace the girl. You don't need nervous hands around you right now, especially when your eyes are acting up."

"She’s cheap help," Gideon replied offhandedly. "Send her to do the laundry in the basement. Get Julian to bring the car around. We have the harbor meeting at noon."

"Julian is already warming it up," Marcus said smoothly. He walked over to the side table, picked up a fresh crystal glass, and pulled a small silver flask from his jacket pocket. "Take this first. The herbal tonic the doctor in New York sent over. He said if you don't take it three times a day, the optic inflammation will spread to the other eye."

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

*The tonic.*

It wasn't in the whiskey. The whiskey was just the carrier—the strong alcohol masked the bitter almond scent of the compound. The real poison was right there in Marcus’s silver flask.

I watched through the curtain of my dark hair as Marcus unscrewed the cap and poured two ounces of clear, odorless fluid into the glass. He handed it directly into Gideon's palm.

"Drink up," Marcus said softly, his voice full of protective brotherhood. "We need your head clear before the Falcone family sits down with us today."