Chapter 4 - A Dangerous Gambit
"Mr. Vitali!"
I cried out, pitching forward deliberately, dropping the wet cleaning rag right onto Marcus’s polished Italian leather shoes.
Marcus leaped back with a curse. "What the hell is wrong with you, girl? Are you blind too?"
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Mr. Cole!" I babbled, grabbing the rag, reaching toward his shoe. "I slipped on the scotch—it's slick—"
In the manufactured chaos, Gideon tilted the glass toward his lips, but instead of swallowing, he let the liquid spill over his tongue and down into the potted fern beside the fireplace with a sleight of hand so fast and seamless only someone watching him intently would notice. When he brought the empty glass down, he grimaced and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"Tastes worse every day," Gideon grunted, handing the empty tumbler back to Marcus. "Marcus, take her downstairs. If she ruins another pair of your shoes, fire her yourself."
Marcus glared down at me, disgust radiating from his posture. "Get out of here. Basement. Ironing room. If I see you on the main floor before dark, I’ll throw you out the front gate into the river."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
I scrambled to my feet, clutching my bucket and rags, keeping my head lowered. As I crossed the threshold, my gaze caught Gideon’s reflection in the hall mirror.
His hazel eyes weren't dull. For a fraction of a second, they locked onto mine with terrifying, crystalline clarity. He gave the faintest nod.
Twenty minutes later, I slipped through the servants' back entrance into the cold Boston rain. I took the subway three stops out toward Dorchester, ducking into an old, rusted brick warehouse behind an abandoned rail yard.
Inside sat Leo Ramos—my father’s former lab technician, the only man who still believed Arthur Vance hadn’t killed himself.
"You're late," Leo snapped without looking up from his centrifuge. He was fifty, chain-smoking, with fingers permanently stained yellow by nicotine and iodine.
"I have it," I said, pulling the sealed plastic bag from my apron and slapping it onto his metal desk. "Glass shards from Gideon Vitali’s personal sitting room. Trace remnants of the liquid Marcus Cole feeds him three times a day."
Leo stopped what he was doing. He pulled down his thick glasses, picking up the bag with tweezers. "You're playing with fire, Maya. The Vitali family isn't a medical mystery. They're a cartel. If Gideon catches you—"
May you like
"Gideon knows," I interrupted. "He’s letting me test it. But Marcus doesn't know. Leo, run the spectrometer. Tell me if it's the same signature that was in my father's blood."
Leo stared at the amber residue clinging to the glass. He sighed, flicked his lighter, and turned on the humming monitors. "Give me ninety minutes."
