Chapter 2 - The Bitter Cup
The east wing smelled of beeswax, old parchment, and expensive floor wax. I tucked Lucia into the corner of the small, windowless staff breakroom behind the laundry chute, handing her a box of colored pencils and a thick sketchpad.
"Stay right here, sweetheart," I whispered, kissing her forehead. "Don't open the door for anyone except me. If you hear footsteps, pretend you're invisible."
"I know, Mama," she mumbled, already drawing a blue horse with wings.
I hurried out to begin my rounds. My hands moved on autopilot—dusting mahogany tables, straightening silver picture frames, fluffing velvet cushions. But my chest felt tight. Dominic Ferrero’s private study and dining suite were on the upper floor of this wing. Usually, he didn't wake until eight, taking his single cup of black, bitter espresso at precisely eight-fifteen while reviewing shipping manifests.
At 8:12 AM, disaster struck in the form of a sudden, blinding panic.
I was wiping the wainscoting in the grand hallway when the heavy oak double doors of Dominic’s private dining room swung open. Dominic strode out, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his silver-streaked dark hair combed back neatly. He looked exhausted, his shoulders carrying the heavy burden of a man who owned half the port infrastructure on the East Coast. Following him was Gianni, his chief lieutenant, carrying a silver tray with a steaming porcelain cup of espresso.
"Leave it on the credenza," Dominic muttered, rubbing his temples. "And cancel the noon meeting with the harbor commissioners. I need three hours of absolute quiet."
"Yes, Mr. Ferrero," Gianni murmured, setting the tray down before bowing slightly and retreating down the corridor.
Dominic reached for the cup, his movements uncharacteristically sluggish. He lifted it to his lips, his eyes heavy-lidded.
Suddenly, a soft patter of bare footsteps echoed down the marble hall.
I froze, my blood turning to ice water. Out from behind a marble pillar stepped Lucia, her blue blanket dragging behind her like a cape, her hair wild from sleep.
"Lucia, no!" I gasped, dropping my dust cloth.
Dominic paused, the porcelain cup inches from his mouth, his sharp eyes narrowing as they landed on the small child standing in his private corridor. The bodyguards at the far end of the hall instantly reached inside their jackets.
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Lucia didn't flinch. She tilted her head, staring intently at the cup in the mafia boss's hand. Then, she looked up into his hardened, dangerous eyes and spoke with absolute, terrifying calm.
"You’re not tired, sir," the little girl said clearly. "You’re drugged."
