Chapter 7 - THE HOUND’S VERDICTBruno let out another low, resonant rumble. The massive black mastiff rose slowly from the marble floor, his muscles bunching beneath his short, glossy coat like coiled steel cables. The heavy leather harness creaked under the strain of his movement.
The background guests instinctively stepped back, pressing against the gilded walls and floral arrangements, clearing a wide circle around the central tragedy unfolding on the floor.
Marcus Thorne’s eyes flicked downward for a fraction of a second toward the massive dog. For the first time, a flicker of genuine dread crossed his features. A mastiff of that size, bred for estate defense and tracking, didn't need commands to know when its master was threatened; it operated on ancient, primal instinct.
"Call your beast off, Harrington," Marcus said, taking a cautious half-step backward. The aristocratic calm was beginning to fray at the edges.
"Bruno doesn't take orders when a rabid dog is in the room," Alexander replied evenly.
He didn't drink from the flute. Instead, with a slow, deliberate motion, Alexander turned his wrist and poured the contents of the crystal glass out onto the polished marble floor.
The pale golden champagne hit the white stone with a sharp splash, the effervescent bubbles fizzing and dying instantly against the cold marble. A tiny wisp of vapor—faint, sweet, and carrying the unmistakable, bitter scent of crushed almonds—rose from the puddle.
Victoria’s eyes widened. The almond scent was faint, masked by the natural esters of the vintage, but undeniable. Cyanide-based alkaloid. Fast-acting, agonizing, and entirely lethal.
"You really intended to kill him right here," Victoria whispered, looking at Marcus with a mixture of horror and disgust. "In front of two hundred people."
"In plain sight," Marcus corrected, his voice dropping into a defiant snarl. "The best place to hide an execution is under the guise of a celebration. Nobody suspects the toastmaster."
"Except one," a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the entrance of the ballroom.
Every head turned. Standing near the grand double doors, flanked by four private security operatives in plain dark suits, was Miller—Alexander’s head of security, a man who looked like he had spent his life surviving corporate espionage wars in Eastern Europe.
May you like
In Miller’s right hand was a small, high-definition digital tablet. He tapped the screen, and the overhead PA system crackled to life.
A recorded audio file began to play across the ballroom speakers.
