Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
“Who sent that?” Bianca whispered.
Her voice was no longer smooth. It was thin. Fragile. The voice of a woman who had just realized the walls of her perfect world were collapsing.
The pastry chef trembled, his hands pulling away from the white cardboard box as if it were burning him.
“I don’t know, Madam,” he stammered, looking at Matteo for mercy. “A delivery boy brought it to the service entrance. He said it was a wedding gift. He insisted it go directly to Mr. Romano’s table.”
Matteo didn't look at the chef.
He didn't look at me.
His dark eyes were locked completely on the box.
For a man who controlled half the city, Matteo Romano rarely showed surprise. But in that moment, the temperature in the dining room plummeted. The silence was absolute. Thirty-five wealthy guests held their breath, watching a man who held their lives in his hands decide what to do next.
Matteo slowly reached out.
He untied the red ribbon.
He lifted the lid.
I stood close enough to see inside.
There was no cake.
Instead, resting on a bed of black tissue paper, was a single, glossy 8x10 photograph.
Matteo picked it up. His face remained a mask of stone, but the muscle in his jaw tightened so fiercely I thought his teeth might shatter.
“Matteo?” Bianca asked, taking a step toward him. Her hands were shaking. “What is it? What does it say?”
He didn’t hand it to her. He dropped the photograph onto the center of the dining table, right next to the poisoned slice of cake.
Everyone leaned forward.
I looked down.
It was a picture of Bianca.
She was sitting in a dark, dimly lit booth at a restaurant. But she wasn't alone. Sitting across from her was a man passing her the exact same golden container I had just seen her use in the kitchen.
Answer One: Bianca hadn't procured the poison herself. She was working with someone. Someone who supplied the weapon.
But as I stared at the man’s face in the photo, a new, terrifying question ripped through my mind. Open Two: Who was he? He wasn't a rival mob boss. He wore a cheap suit. He had a scar above his left eyebrow. He looked like a street-level enforcer. Why was the future queen of the Romano empire dealing with a thug?
Bianca gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth.
“Matteo, I can explain! That’s… that’s not what it looks like!”
Reversal: The guests began to whisper, assuming Bianca was having an affair. But I knew better. You don't look that terrified over an affair. You look that terrified over treason.
Before Matteo could speak, the heavy mahogany doors of the dining room swung open again.
A woman stormed in.
It was Clara, Matteo’s younger sister. Her eyes were red from crying, her elegant evening gown rumpled. Holding her hand was little Leo, Matteo’s five-year-old nephew. The boy who had almost died a week ago.
“Matteo!” Clara cried out, ignoring the guests. “The hospital just called. The toxicology report came back. Leo wasn’t sick from a virus. He was poisoned.”
The room erupted into gasps.
Matteo stood up. He looked from Clara, to Leo, and finally, to Bianca.
The executioner’s gaze.
Leo, oblivious to the tension, let go of his mother’s hand and walked up to the table. He was pale, still recovering, but his bright eyes scanned the plates.
Then, he saw the photograph sitting on the table.
Leo pointed a small, shaking finger directly at the picture.
My heart stopped. I expected him to point at Bianca.
May you like
Instead, Leo pointed at the man with the scar.
“Uncle Matteo,” the little boy said, his voice ringing loud and clear in the silent room. “That’s the man who drives your car.”
