Chapter 4 - The Silver Knife on White Linen
The hallway outside the grand ballroom was lined with gilt-framed portraits of previous Moretti patriarchs, their stern oil-painted faces watching silently as I strode toward the main exit. Down the corridor, the muted strains of a string quartet drifted from behind double mahogany doors, masking the high-stakes tension bleeding through the estate.
Alessandro stood near the cloakroom, helping an elderly board member adjust her silk wrap with practiced charm. His gray suit jacket was impeccably tailored, his white shirt collar stiff and bright under the wall sconces. As soon as he saw me approach, his lips curved into that familiar, razor-thin smile that had fooled the family syndicate for years.
"Dominic," Alessandro said smoothly, stepping away from the guest and extending a manicured hand. "I was wondering where you disappeared to. The dessert course is about to be served, and your wine glass has been sitting entirely unattended."
I did not take his hand. I stopped two paces away, letting the silence stretch between us until his smile began to flicker at the edges.
"It's a fine vintage, Alessandro," I said quietly. "Though I found the additive a bit bitter."
His eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter, the only outward sign that his composure had been tested. He let his hand drop to his side, his fingers instinctively brushing against the silver pocket watch chain looped across his vest. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, cousin. You look pale. Perhaps the responsibilities of the syndicate are finally catching up to you."
"A three-year-old child has a sharper eye than an entire board of directors," I replied, stepping closer so that only he could hear the hard edge in my voice. "She saw you lift the vial. She watched you contaminate the glass while the room was distracted."
For a fleeting second, panic flared in Alessandro's eyes, quickly smothered by a mask of cold arrogance. He tilted his head, feigning mild amusement. "A child’s imagination, Dominic. If you start accusing family members based on playground fairy tales, the syndicate will tear itself apart from the inside. And who would pick up the pieces?"
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"I would," I said evenly. "And I'll start by stripping you of every asset, every title, and every square foot of property you've stolen from the foundation over the last five years."
Alessandro's smile vanished entirely. He stepped back, his hand resting casually near a silver fruit knife displayed on a nearby mahogany side table—a subtle echo of the tableau inside the dining hall. "You prove nothing without the glass, Dominic. And by morning, that glass will be nothing more than washed crystal."
