Dante Moretti had signed a hundred contracts without lifting his eyes from the page. He was forty-two, boss of all bosses of the five eastern families, and no man in a room spoke until he spoke first. Then the cook's daughter walked into his study — three years old, one ribbon lost, a gray stuffed cat crushed against her chest — and said it out loud. *Your fiancée is a thief.* He did not shout. He did not move for three full seconds. He let the ink bleed across the signature he had almost finished. And when the room was empty again, he went to a drawer that only two living men knew existed, and found the bronze seal sitting three millimeters to the left of where it had sat that morning. Children say foolish things. In the Moretti family, no sentence — not even one spoken by a child — is ever ignored twice.

The morning of the wedding dawned cold, gray, and completely unforgiving.

Dante sat in his master suite, wearing crisp black trousers and a white dress shirt, staring out the window at the massive reception tents. The estate was a hive of frantic activity, but the silence inside his room was heavy and suffocating.

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Come in," Dante said, not turning around.

Victoria entered, wearing a stunning silk robe, carrying an ornate, velvet-lined wooden box. She looked radiant, playing the part of the blushing, eager bride to absolute perfection.

"Good morning, my love," Victoria smiled, setting the box down on his mahogany dresser. "I know it's bad luck to see the groom today, but I had to bring you your wedding gift in person."

Dante turned slowly, pasting a warm, affectionate smile onto his face. "You shouldn't have, Victoria. Your presence is gift enough."

"Open it," she insisted, her eyes gleaming with manufactured excitement.

Dante unlatched the velvet box. Inside lay a breathtaking, vintage bottle of incredibly rare Italian red wine, flanked by two crystal goblets.

"It's a 1945 Maculan," Victoria whispered, stepping close and resting her hands on his chest. "I want you to open it tonight, right after the ceremony, just the two of us in your study. A private toast to our new empire."

Dante looked at the dark red liquid inside the antique bottle. He knew exactly what it was. It wasn't just wine. It was a highly concentrated, untraceable cardiac arrest agent provided by the Bratva. One sip, and he would be dead before he hit the floor, allowing her to comfortably loot the safe while pretending to scream for an ambulance.

"It's beautiful," Dante murmured, gently closing the box. "I look forward to drinking it with you tonight."

Victoria kissed his cheek, her lips cold against his skin, and hurried out of the room to begin her hair and makeup.

Once the door clicked shut, Dante picked up the velvet box and handed it to Silvio, who had stepped silently out of the adjoining dressing room.

"Take this to the lab," Dante ordered coldly. "Confirm the poison. Then replace the wine with our own vintage, and put exactly three drops of the toxin into the glass she intends to drink from."