Chapter 2 - The Sweet Smell of TreasonI slipped out of the armchair, my bare feet making no sound against the Persian rug. The door creaked inward by two inches. A sliver of hallway light cut across the dark room, illuminating a figure draped in a black maid’s uniform.
In her hands, she carried a silver tray with a steaming porcelain bowl.
The soup.
I stepped into the shadow of the doorframe just as she slipped inside. As she closed the door behind her, I caught it—a faint, suffocating scent of crushed gardenias mixed with the metallic tang of bitter almond. Cyanide.
“Can I help you with that?” I asked, my voice flat and low.
The maid froze. The silver tray rattled against her fingertips, but she didn’t drop it. Slowly, she turned her head, revealing the sharp, unblinking eyes of Clara, the head housekeeper who had served the Rosetti family for twenty years.
“Mr. Rosetti ordered a late-night restorative broth for the child,” Clara said, her voice completely steady, devoid of panic. “Move aside, boy. You smell of the streets; you have no right guarding royalty.”
“Mr. Rosetti said no one enters,” I replied, stepping closer until I could see the cold sweat beading on her upper lip. “And Lily told me not to eat the soup.”
Clara’s lips curled into a thin, venomous smile. “A dying stray dog trying to play watchman. Do you really think Dominic cares about you? You’re a placeholder. When the board meets tomorrow, you’ll be just another body thrown into Lake Michigan.”
Instead of answering, I lunged forward, smashing the tray out of her hands. The porcelain bowl shattered against the marble floor, splashing dark, poisoned broth across our shoes.
Clara didn’t scream. Her hand flashed inside her apron, drawing a heavy, silenced pistol.
Bang.
The bullet tore through the sleeve of my sweater, missing my arm by a millimeter and burying itself deep into the mahogany door. Before she could cock the hammer again, I drove my shoulder straight into her chest, sending us both crashing backward into the hallway.
Alarms instantly wailed through the mansion. Red emergency lights bathed the white stone corridors in blood-red flashes.
Heavy combat boots thundered up the curved staircase. Dominic Rosetti appeared at the top of the landing first, a submachine gun gripped in his hand, his eyes wild with a terrifying, absolute fury.
He looked at Clara pinned beneath me, and then at the smoking gun on the floor.
“She tried to poison Lily,” I gasped, catching my breath.
Dominic didn’t look at Clara. He looked down at me, noticing the shredded sleeve of my sweater and the faint smear of gunpowder on my cheek. He lowered his weapon slowly, walked over, and grabbed Clara by her collar, hauling her up with one hand like she weighed nothing.
“Who hired you?” Dominic whispered, his voice dangerously soft.
Clara laughed, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “You think I’m the head of the snake, Dominic? Check your private accounts. Check your shipping docks. The war has already started, and your little wolf cub is the prize.”
Before Dominic could squeeze, Clara’s body went completely rigid. Her eyes rolled back, and black foam bubbled from her lips.
May you like
A tiny, hollow dart protruded from the side of her neck.
Dominic spun around, aiming his gun down the empty, echoing corridor, but there was nothing there—only the wind howling through the open balcony window at the end of the hall.
