Chapter 2 - The Bottle That Was Never Meant for Dinner
Roman did not look at the blood first.
He looked at Matteo’s face.
His uncle had taught him poker before Roman was old enough to drive. He had taught him how to recognize fear, how to recognize greed, and how to recognize the precise moment a liar decided which truth to replace.
Matteo showed none of those things.
That made Roman more suspicious.
“You’re carrying a key,” Roman said.
Matteo glanced at his hand as though he had forgotten it existed.
“This?”
“Where did you get it?”
“From the study.”
Roman knew that was impossible.
Container 4417 had belonged to his father. After Vittorio DeLuca died, Roman had ordered every surviving key sealed inside a bank box.
Roman had opened that box once.
It had been empty.
“Why is there blood on it?”
Matteo smiled faintly.
“Probably mine.”
He showed a cut across his thumb.
Too neat.
Too convenient.
Roman said nothing.
Matteo’s eyes moved to the folded receipt in Roman’s hand.
“Claire found something?”
“Why do you think Claire found it?”
“She mentioned the cellar before she lost consciousness.”
Roman studied him.
“You heard that?”
“Everyone heard it.”
“No. Most people heard her say there was something inside the bottle.”
Matteo’s smile disappeared.
Roman continued.
“She whispered the word cellar before we crossed the threshold. You were fifteen feet away.”
Silence.
Then Matteo sighed.
“Roman, you’re upset.”
“A woman nearly died.”
“I know.”
“In my house.”
“I know.”
“Under an order carrying my initials.”
Matteo’s expression softened in a way Roman had seen many times.
The concerned uncle.
The counselor.
The man who made danger sound like weather.
“Then find whoever forged it.”
“I intend to.”
Roman slipped the receipt into his pocket.
Matteo extended the key.
“If this helps, take it.”
Roman accepted it.
Matteo left.
Enzo waited until the door closed.
“He wanted you to see that key.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Roman looked down at the blood.
“Because he wants me thinking about Container 4417.”
“And you don’t?”
“I think about whatever someone works this hard to put in front of me.”
Upstairs, Claire woke at 11:26 p.m.
She did not know where she was.
Her first sensation was heat.
Too much heat.
Her skin hurt.
Her fingertips burned.
Then memory returned in pieces.
The cellar.
The vial.
The locked door.
Snow.
Roman.
Claire opened her eyes.
A nurse sat beside the bed.
“You’re safe.”
Claire tried to sit up.
“Where—”
“The DeLuca mansion. You had hypothermia.”
“How long?”
“A few hours.”
Claire stared at the IV in her arm.
“Mr. DeLuca?”
The nurse hesitated.
“He’s downstairs.”
Claire remembered Bianca’s face.
And Matteo.
Then something else.
A man in the service hall before she left.
A gray suit.
A black signet ring.
She had seen his hand remove something from the wall phone.
Claire pushed the blanket away.
“I need to speak to him.”
“You need rest.”
“I need Roman.”
It was the first time she had used his first name.
Twenty minutes later, Roman entered.
He had changed clothes but not expression.
Black shirt.
No tie.
Sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He stood near the door as though he did not want to frighten her.
“How do you feel?”
“Like my fingers are on fire.”
“That’s good.”
Claire almost laughed.
He did not.
“The doctor said pain means circulation is returning.”
She looked toward the nurse.
“Can we talk privately?”
Roman nodded.
The nurse left.
Claire studied him.
“Did you send me?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
“You didn’t write that note?”
“No.”
Claire swallowed.
“I believed it.”
“I know.”
“I should have questioned it.”
“No.”
Roman’s voice sharpened.
“You should have been able to trust that an order carrying my name would not send you into a blizzard without a coat.”
Claire stared at him.
Roman continued more quietly.
“The mistake was mine.”
“How?”
“I built a house where people obey my name before asking whether the order makes sense.”
Claire had no response.
Roman sat in the chair beside the bed.
“What did you see in the cellar?”
“A broken bottle. An empty vial.”
“We found both.”
“There was something else.”
Roman leaned forward.
“A receipt.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You found it?”
“Three days ago.”
“Where?”
“Inside one of the wine crates.”
Claire hesitated.
“I wasn’t snooping.”
“I didn’t accuse you.”
“Gabriel asked me to inventory several bottles. The receipt was folded inside the crate. There were names on it.”
“What names?”
“I only recognized one.”
Roman waited.
“Your father’s.”
Roman’s face changed almost imperceptibly.
“You know my father’s name?”
“Everyone who works here does.”
“What else?”
“There was a list of container numbers and dates. One date was six years ago.”
The year Vittorio died.
Claire continued.
“I took the receipt because the crate smelled strange. Chemical. I thought maybe there was a cleaning product leak. Later I noticed writing on the back.”
“Ask who changed the wine.”
Claire looked surprised.
“You found it.”
“Yes.”
“I wrote the container number down because Mrs. Bell told me old shipments sometimes had inventory errors. I was going to ask Gabriel.”
“You wrote the warning?”
“No.”
Roman froze.
Claire shook her head.
“That was already there.”
Roman thought of the handwriting.
It had looked similar to Claire’s because both used block letters.
But Claire had written only the numbers.
Someone else had written the warning.
“When did you show the receipt to anyone?”
“I didn’t.”
“Did anyone see you with it?”
Claire thought.
“Bianca.”
Roman’s expression remained neutral.
“She came into the pantry while I was reading it. I folded it immediately.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked whether I had found something interesting.”
“And you said?”
“Old inventory.”
Roman stood.
“Anything else?”
Claire suddenly remembered.
“The man with the ring.”
“What man?”
“Gray suit. Maybe fifty. Black stone ring.”
Roman’s eyes hardened.
“Where?”
“Service corridor. Before I went outside. He was near the wall phone.”
“What was he doing?”
“I’m not sure. His hand was inside the panel.”
Roman moved toward the door.
Claire said, “Mr. DeLuca.”
He stopped.
“Roman.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“After tonight, I think we can skip Mr. DeLuca.”
Claire looked down.
“Roman.”
“Yes?”
“Bianca knew my coat was missing.”
He turned slowly.
“She followed me to the cloakroom. When I couldn’t find it, she told me I wouldn’t be outside long.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
Claire continued.
“She watched me leave.”
“Did she touch the note?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She held it.”
Roman left without another word.
Downstairs, Bianca stood alone in the library.
She poured champagne when Roman entered.
“You should be upstairs.”
Roman closed the door.
“So should Claire.”
Bianca set down the bottle.
“I told you, I thought you sent her.”
“You touched the note.”
“So did Mrs. Bell.”
“You knew Claire’s coat was missing.”
“I didn’t know.”
“She says you did.”
Bianca gave a humorless laugh.
“A maid suffering from hypothermia says something confused, and you interrogate me?”
Roman walked closer.
“She remembers clearly.”
“You always believe women when they look helpless?”
That sentence ended the last remaining trace of patience in him.
Roman lowered his voice.
“Careful.”
Bianca stared back.
They had known each other for twelve years.
Their families had arranged dinners, deals, vacations, alliances.
People assumed they would marry because it made sense.
Roman had never promised her marriage.
Bianca had apparently promised herself.
“You think I tried to kill your maid?” she asked.
“I think someone did.”
“And suddenly I’m a suspect?”
“Everyone is.”
“Including Matteo?”
“Yes.”
That answer rattled her.
Roman noticed.
Bianca looked toward the fire.
“Your uncle raised you.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
“He loves you.”
“Love has buried more men in my family than bullets.”
Bianca went quiet.
Roman walked to the desk.
“Who is the man with the black signet ring?”
Her champagne glass stopped halfway to her mouth.
Roman saw it.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“No.”
Roman stepped closer.
“Claire saw him tampering with the service phone.”
Bianca placed the glass down.
“There were sixty people here tonight.”
“Fifty-eight.”
“Fine.”
“His name.”
“I said I don’t know.”
Roman held her gaze.
Then smiled.
It was not friendly.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For answering too quickly.”
He left.
At midnight, Enzo brought the security logs.
The gray-suited man did not appear on the guest list.
No invitation.
No employee badge.
No driver registration.
Yet cameras showed him entering through the kitchen at 6:42 p.m.
His face appeared only once.
Enzo enlarged the frame.
Roman recognized him.
“Damian Cole.”
Enzo nodded.
Damian had worked for Vittorio DeLuca as a logistics manager.
He disappeared two days after Vittorio died.
Roman had been told he fled the country.
“He’s been alive all this time,” Roman said.
“And he walked into your house tonight.”
Roman stared at the image.
“Find him.”
“I already sent teams.”
“Quietly.”
Enzo hesitated.
“There’s more.”
He produced Claire’s phone.
“Where?”
“Matteo’s car.”
Roman looked up.
“Hidden beneath the passenger seat.”
“Who found it?”
“Me.”
Roman turned the phone over.
The screen was cracked.
One unread voice recording appeared.
Timestamp: 8:06 p.m.
Claire must have accidentally activated the recorder while working.
Roman pressed play.
Glasses clinked.
Footsteps.
Claire humming softly.
Then Bianca’s voice.
“You’re sure the cellar will be locked?”
A male voice answered.
Roman knew it.
Matteo.
“She won’t make it back.”
Roman’s grip tightened.
Then Bianca whispered:
“And Roman?”
Matteo answered calmly.
“By midnight, he’ll drink from the same bottle that killed his father.”
The recording ended.
Enzo stared at Roman.
Neither spoke.
Then Claire’s phone vibrated.
A message appeared from an unknown number.
Roman opened it.
DON’T TRUST THE RECORDING.
A second message arrived.
IT WAS MADE FOR YOU TO FIND.
A third followed.
IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO REALLY ORDERED CLAIRE’S DEATH, COME TO CONTAINER 4417 ALONE.
Roman looked at Enzo.
Before either man could speak, the lights in the library went out.
A gunshot cracked from upstairs.
Roman ran.
He reached Claire’s room.
The nurse was screaming.
The window stood open.
Snow blew across the carpet.
Claire’s bed was empty.
May you like
And written across the mirror in red lipstick were five words:
SHE KNOWS HOW VITTORIO DIED.
