Chapter 4 - The Dinner of Broken Glass
At 5:15 p.m., the grand dining room of the Duca estate was illuminated by the flickering, amber light of a hundred beeswax candles set in antique silver candelabras.
The thirty-foot mahogany table was set for two with fine Limoges porcelain, polished gold cutlery, and crystal flutes of vintage champagne.
Isabella Rossi swept into the dining room wearing an exquisite emerald-green silk evening gown, her blonde hair styled in a severe, elegant chignon, her diamond engagement ring catching the candlelight with brilliant, cold fire.
"Lorenzo, darling," Isabella cooed, gliding toward the head of the table with a radiant, rehearsed smile. "You look so serious! The wedding invitations from Tiffany arrived this afternoon. We need to finalize the seating arrangements for the state senators before eight—"
Her voice died mid-breath.
Isabella froze at the edge of the dining room rug.
Sitting at the center of the table to Lorenzo’s right, wearing an elegant navy wool three-piece suit provided by the estate wardrobe staff, with her bandaged hands resting calmly on the white linen, was Sophia Callaway.
And sitting on a cushioned booster chair beside me, eating a small bowl of fresh strawberries with a silver fork, was three-year-old Emma.
Behind Lorenzo’s chair stood Arthur Ross, Detective Marcus Thorne of the State Police Major Economic Crimes Unit, and two armed tactical operators from Duca Sovereign Security.
The color drained from Isabella’s face in a slow, catastrophic wave, leaving her skin the sallow, grayish shade of wet lime. Her manicured hands tightened around her gold evening clutch until the metal clasps creaked.
"Lorenzo...?" Isabella stammered, her voice pitching up into a sharp, brittle register. "What... what is the meaning of this insulting spectacle? Why is a domestic cleaner and her brat sitting at our private dining table?"
Lorenzo did not rise from his chair.
He took a slow, measured sip of his vintage red wine, set the crystal glass onto the tablecloth with a quiet, hollow clink, and looked up at the woman he was supposed to marry in four weeks.
"We were just discussing carpet cleaning, Isabella," Lorenzo said softly.
His voice was terrifyingly calm, carrying the cold, methodical weight of an executioner reading a docket.
Lorenzo reached down beside his chair, picking up the heavy crystal wine bottle from the chiller.
With a single, fluid motion, Lorenzo turned his wrist, tipping the bottle completely upside down over the center of the white damask tablecloth right in front of Isabella’s empty plate.
GLUG. GLUG. GLUG.
A massive, dark crimson lake of vintage Cabernet spread across the pristine white linen, soaking through the cloth, dripping heavily onto the hardwood floorboards below with a steady, rhythmic drip... drip... drip.
Isabella shrieked, jumping backward two paces to keep the wine from splashing her emerald gown. "Lorenzo! Have you lost your mind? That linen was hand-woven in Florence!"
"Clean it, Isabella," Lorenzo whispered.
May you like
Isabella stared at him, her lips parting in pure, unvarnished shock. "What... what did you say?"
"I said clean it," Lorenzo repeated, his slate-gray eyes locking onto hers with freezing, lethal clarity. "Get on your knees on this floor. Take this linen napkin and scrub this stain. Seven times. Until I cannot smell the wine. Exactly as you made Sophia do this afternoon."
