Chapter 4 - THE POISONED CUP AND THE BLIND MAN'S TRAP
The morning sun filtered through the high Gothic stained-glass windows of the Hawthorne estate, casting long, fractured beams of red and gold across the dusty marble floor of the grand dining hall.
At the head of the massive, ten-seat mahogany dining table sat Dominic Castellano. He had dressed himself for the first time in months. Wearing a tailored charcoal-grey shirt with the top buttons casually undone, his broad shoulders squared and his dark beard meticulously trimmed, he radiated the terrifying, aristocratic aura of a mafia don who had risen straight from the depths of hell. His thick black silk blindfold was securely tied, but the terrifying emptiness of his unseeing eyes was more than compensated for by the coiled, coiled-spring menace of his posture.
A few yards away, hovering near the service door with a tray of breakfast dishes, stood Mrs. Gable. Her eyes were bloodshot from the previous night's heavy drinking, and her face was twisted into an ugly, triumphant sneer. Beside her stood Clara, nervously clutching a china plate loaded with eggs and toast.
"Take it to him," Mrs. Gable whispered loudly, nudging Clara in the ribs with a sharp elbow. "Let’s see how long the great Dominic Castellano can pretend to be a king when his coffee tastes like rat poison."
Clara swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she carried the heavy silver tray across the vast dining room. She approached the head of the table and slammed the tray down onto the polished wood with a disrespectful clatter, intentionally spilling half the steaming, dark coffee over the rim of the saucer.
"Your breakfast, Mr. Castellano," Clara muttered, her voice dripping with insolence. "Eat up before it gets cold."
Dominic did not move a muscle. He sat in absolute, terrifying silence, his hands resting calmly on the armrests of his chair. He didn't reach for his fork. He didn't flinch at the spilled coffee. Instead, a slow, razor-sharp smile crept across his lips.
"Clara," Dominic spoke, his voice deep, smooth, and echoing off the vaulted stone ceilings like rolling thunder.
The young maid froze mid-turn, a sudden wave of panic washing over her face. "Y-yes, Mr. Castellano?"
"You forgot something," Dominic said smoothly, his blind face turning directly toward her with pinpoint accuracy.
"I... I brought everything you asked for," Clara stammered, her voice cracking with fear.
"No," Dominic corrected, his tone dropping into a dark, velvet growl. "You forgot to check the sugar. Or perhaps... you forgot that I spent twenty years running the most ruthless syndicate on the East Coast, and I know the exact smell of almond extract mixed with potassium cyanide."
Clara’s face drained completely of color. She staggered backward, her breath catching in her throat as her knees went weak. Across the room, Mrs. Gable’s jaw dropped in absolute horror.
Before Clara could bolt toward the door, Dominic stood up.
His massive, towering frame cast a long, imposing shadow across the dining hall. With the terrifying grace of a predator hunting in the dark, Dominic stepped away from the table. Without his sight, his other senses guided him with supernatural precision. He crossed the floor in three long, silent strides, his hand reaching out and locking around Clara’s wrist with a grip like a hydraulic press.
"P-please!" Clara sobbed, tears instantly streaming down her face as the excruciating pressure threatened to snap her bones. "I didn't know! Mrs. Gable told me to put it in! She said you were a dead man anyway!"
Across the room, Mrs. Gable panicked. Realizing the game was up, she turned tail and sprinted toward the kitchen service doors, desperate to escape the estate and call Damian Cross.
"Going somewhere, Mrs. Gable?" Dominic called out casually, his voice echoing effortlessly across the cavernous hall.
Before the housekeeper could reach the exit, the heavy service door swung open from the outside.
Standing in the doorway, bathed in the morning light, was Meline.
She stood with absolute calm, blocking Mrs. Gable’s escape route entirely. In her hands, she held not a cleaning rag, but the heavy leather-bound financial ledger she had stolen from the safe the night before, along with a stack of printed bank statements.
Mrs. Gable slammed to a halt, gasping for breath, her eyes wide with sheer terror as she looked from Meline to the towering, sightless mafia boss advancing toward them.
"You... you little mute bitch!" Mrs. Gable shrieked, lunging forward with her fingernails bared to scratch Meline’s eyes out.
Meline didn't flinch. She simply stepped aside with liquid grace, letting the housekeeper’s momentum carry her forward. At that exact moment, Dominic reached out, his massive hand catching Mrs. Gable by the back of her collar with terrifying speed, hoisting her off her feet as if she weighed nothing at all.
"You stole from my estate," Dominic growled, his face inches from the terrified housekeeper, his unseeing eyes burning with absolute fury. "You poisoned my food. And worst of all... you thought you could bury me in my own home."
"D-Damian..." Mrs. Gable choked out, her feet kicking frantically in the air as she struggled for oxygen. "Damian Cross will kill you! He owns the city now! You're blind! You can't touch him!"
Dominic let out a dark, bone-chilling laugh that reverberated through the entire hall.
"Let Damian come," Dominic whispered, his voice dripping with lethal promise. "Tell him the king is awake. And the crown belongs to me."
He tossed Mrs. Gable aside like a ragdoll, sending her crashing into the mahogany table. She scrambled backward on the floor, gasping and sobbing, too terrified to even look back as she fled the room.
Dominic turned back toward the center of the hall, his chest heaving slightly. He stood alone in the vast, echoing space—until a soft, familiar touch brushed against his hand.
May you like
Meline stepped close to his side. She reached out, gently taking his large, calloused hand, and pressed her pen and notepad into his palm. Dominic lowered his head, his fingers tracing the hastily written words in the quiet aftermath of the storm:
‘The trap is set. Now we strike back.’
