Chapter 8 - The Poisoned Vintage
The atmosphere in Luca’s private ground-floor study was suffocatingly tense.
The heavy mahogany doors were double-locked from the inside.
On the central desk sat a heavy crystal decanter filled with dark amber single-malt scotch.
Beside it stood Dr. Robert Harris and an elderly gentleman in a gray suit with a mobile chemical forensics kit.
Dr. Evans, the chief toxicologist at Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
Marcus Cole stood near the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes glued to the display monitor.
Luca stood behind his desk, his hands resting flat against the polished wood.
His gaze was locked onto the amber liquid glowing beneath the green banker's lamp.
“Tell me what is inside that decanter, Evans,” Luca commanded.
His voice was devoid of emotion, a flat, dangerous monotone.
Dr. Evans adjusted his spectacles, pointing to the digital spectrophotometer screen on his case.
A series of complex molecular diagrams and absorption spikes were displayed in bright green pixels.
“The sample contains pure Digitoxin mixed with a synthetic potassium-channel blocker,” Dr. Evans said.
“It is completely odorless, colorless, and retains full solubility in eighty-proof alcohol.”
“What is the lethal threshold?” Luca asked.
“A single standard two-ounce pour contains approximately four hundred milligrams of the compound,” the toxicologist replied.
“Within twelve minutes of ingestion, the myocardial cells begin experiencing irreversible electrical disruption.”
“Ventricular fibrillation occurs within twenty minutes.”
“To an ordinary paramedic or an autopsy without targeted gas chromatography, the cause of death presents as an acute myocardial infarction.”
“A massive, natural heart attack.”
Dr. Harris took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh.
“It is the perfect assassination chemical, Luca.”
“If you had consumed your customary nightcap tonight after the rehearsal, you would have been dead before the morning staff arrived.”
Luca closed his eyes for three long seconds.
When he opened them again, the hazel depths were pitch black, burning with a cold, terrifying clarity.
He turned his gaze toward me, where I sat quietly in the leather armchair near the fireplace.
“Claire,” Luca said softly.
“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Vanessa believes you are currently locked inside your third-floor quarters under house arrest.”
“She believes Marcus confiscated your phone and that she still holds the upper hand.”
“Julian has confirmed that the wedding rehearsal dinner will proceed at the Chicago Yacht Club tomorrow at seven.”
“He believes the trap is completely operational.”
Luca walked around the desk, stopping two feet from my chair.
“They are expecting me to die tonight in this chair.”
“Or they are expecting me to collapse tomorrow during the pre-wedding toast.”
“I am going to give them neither.”
“What is the plan, sir?” I asked, leaning forward against the leather armrest.
Luca pointed to a second crystal decanter sitting inside a wooden presentation box on the credenza.
It was an exact duplicate of the vintage bottle, identical in cut crystal, label, and amber coloring.
“Marcus has replaced the contents of that decanter with pure caramel-colored spring water and distilled tea,” Luca explained.
“Dr. Evans will take the poisoned vintage directly into custody as chain-of-custody evidence for the United States Attorney’s Office.”
“Tomorrow morning, the estate will maintain a strict radio silence.”
“Vanessa will spend the morning at the salon with her bridesmaids, believing her poison is waiting for me.”
“Julian will arrive at the yacht club tomorrow evening, fully expecting to see a weakened, dying man or an empty groom’s chair.”
Luca turned toward Marcus.
“Have the federal warrants been signed, Marcus?”
Marcus tapped the screen of his tablet.
“Assistant U.S. Attorney Miller signed the sealed emergency arrest warrants forty minutes ago, Mr. Moretti.”
“Aggravated wire fraud, grand larceny, conspiracy to commit premeditated murder, and corporate extortion.”
“A total of twelve federal counts against Julian Vance and Vanessa Bellini.”
“Six counts against Roberto Bellini for cross-border maritime debt fraud.”
“The federal tactical team will be in position around the perimeter of the yacht club by six o'clock tomorrow evening.”
“They are giving us operational clearance to let the drama play out until the public toasts begin.”
“Why wait for the toasts?” I asked, looking between Marcus and Luca.
Luca’s jaw set into hard, uncompromising lines.
“Because seven years ago, Julian Vance held a press conference on the steps of the Cook County courthouse.”
“He invited sixty journalists to watch your father, Thomas Dawson, walk out in handcuffs.”
“He called your father a cancer on Chicago’s corporate integrity.”
“He stood before the cameras with a smug smile while your family’s dignity was destroyed on the evening news.”
Luca stepped closer, his gaze burning with ancient, righteous fury.
“A quiet arrest in a hotel room or an estate corridor is too merciful for Julian Vance.”
“He wants an audience.”
“He wants high society.”
“He wants the cameras.”
“So I am going to give him the biggest audience in this city.”
“I am going to let him raise his glass to my impending death in front of every business titan in the Midwest.”
“And then I will let the world watch the handcuffs click around his wrists.”
A heavy, profound silence settled over the study.
I looked down at the white fiberglass cast encasing my forearm.
The pain from the fractured bones had faded into a dull, manageable ache.
In its place was a feeling I hadn't experienced since the day my father was taken away.
Hope.
The absolute certainty that the architects of our misery were finally walking into the fire they had built.
“What do you need me to do tomorrow night, Mr. Moretti?” I asked.
Luca reached out, taking my right hand into his warm, steady grasp.
“Tomorrow night, Claire, you will not be serving soup from behind the guests.”
“You will be sitting at the head table as my guest of honor.”
“You will wear silk.”
“You will wear diamonds.”
“And you will look Julian Vance in the eyes when the United States Marshals walk through the double doors.”
“Are you ready for that?”
I looked up into Luca Moretti’s eyes, my chin held high.
May you like
“I have been ready for seven years, Mr. Moretti.”
“Then let the rehearsal begin,” Luca whispered.
