Chapter 7 - Venom in the Carafe
I didn't move. I kept my breathing slow, even, and deliberate, though my pulse
was hammering like a trapped bird inside my skull.
Mrs. Gable walked into the study, her soft-soled shoes making no sound against
the Persian carpet. She set the silver tray on the low coffee table near the
leather sofa, her hands trembling so noticeably that the porcelain lid of the
teapot rattled against the rim.
“Drink it while it’s hot, Miss Mia,” Mrs. Gable said, keeping her back
half-turned toward me. “It will calm your nerves after all that terrible noise
downstairs.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gable,” I said, rising smoothly from the rug, placing my body
directly between the housekeeper and Mia. “I will pour it for her.”
Mrs. Gable’s hand snapped toward the porcelain handle. “No need, Sarah! I can
serve the young mistress. You look exhausted, dear. Why don't you sit down?”
“I insist, Mrs. Gable,” I said, stepping closer, my voice perfectly polite, but
carrying a cold, razor-sharp edge.
I reached out and took the porcelain handle from her fingers.
As my hand brushed hers, the scent hit me—distinct, dry, unmistakable.
Not commercial lavender perfume. The sharp, herbal aroma of dried French
lavender blossoms, mixed with the faint, metallic chemical tang of battery
grease.
The exact grease used to seal waterproof lithium compartments on military
transponders.
Mrs. Gable pulled her hand back as if she had touched red-hot iron. Her eyes
flicked toward the heavy oak door, then darted to the side table where Cassian’s
auxiliary communications radio was glowing green.
“You’ve been with the Vance family for six years, Mrs. Gable,” I murmured,
lifting the teapot, watching the amber liquid swirl inside the spout.
“Yes, Sarah,” she replied, her voice tightening into a high, brittle pitch.
“Long before you arrived with your forged papers.”
“And you were with Isabella in Rome when the car bomb went off.”
Mrs. Gable’s jaw twitched. “I was in the trailing escort vehicle.”
“You were the one who carried the music box down to the car that morning,
weren't you?” I asked, taking a slow step toward her, holding the porcelain pot
between both hands. “You placed it on Mia’s lap before the driver closed the
door.”
Mrs. Gable backed away by two paces, her hands retreating into the deep front
pockets of her apron.
“You don't understand how these families operate, Sarah,” she whispered, the
matronly facade crumbling to reveal a face hollowed by greed and fear. “Henri
Fontaine promised me five million euros in an offshore account in Cyprus. My
grandson has leukemia. His treatments cost forty thousand a month. Cassian Vance
would have killed us all eventually anyway!”
“And what did Henri Fontaine ask you to put in this tea, Mrs. Gable?” I asked,
tilting the teapot slightly.
“Just a sedative!” she gasped, tears spilling down her wrinkled cheeks. “A heavy
sleeping draught! Just enough to keep Mia unconscious while the French
extraction team takes her through the coastal cave!”
“Liar,” I hissed.
I took the lid off the teapot. Floating on the surface of the amber liquid was a
faint, iridescent oily film, smelling faintly of bitter almonds.
Potassium cyanide.
A dose large enough to stop a ten-year-old child's heart within ninety seconds.
Mrs. Gable saw the recognition in my eyes.
Her hand whipped out of her apron pocket, clutching a four-inch ceramic paring
knife, lunging straight for my throat with a desperate, animal shriek.
“Sarah!” Mia screamed from the floor.
I didn't hesitate. I didn't think about my safety.
I swung the heavy porcelain teapot with all the strength in my arms, smashing it
directly against the side of Mrs. Gable’s face.
The porcelain shattered in an explosion of scalding tea and ceramic shards.
Mrs. Gable wailed in agony, dropping the knife as she clutched her blistered,
bleeding cheek, collapsing heavily against the mahogany bookcase. Books tumbled
from the shelves, burying her in a shower of heavy leather bindings.
I kicked the ceramic knife across the floor, grabbed the heavy brass desk lamp,
and stood over the weeping housekeeper with the weapon raised, my chest heaving
with wild, furious adrenaline.
The study doors burst open with a concussive bang that shook the frames on the
wall.
Cassian Vance charged into the room, his assault rifle raised, Vittorio and two
armed operators right behind him.
Cassian’s eyes swept the room in a single, lightning-fast assessment: Mia safe
on the rug, the shattered teapot, the smell of bitter almonds, the bleeding
housekeeper pinned beneath the books, and me standing over her with a brass
lamp, breathing heavily, ready to kill.
Cassian lowered his rifle.
He took three long strides across the room, stopped in front of me, and gently
took the heavy brass lamp from my trembling fingers.
“Sarah,” Cassian murmured, his deep voice washing over me like an anchor in a
raging sea. “It’s over. Put it down.”
My hands unclenched. The lamp clattered onto the desk.
I looked down at my apron, splattered with tea and blood, and then looked up
into Cassian’s dark, fathomless eyes.
“She tried to poison Mia,” I gasped, my voice finally cracking under the weight
of the horror. “Cyanide in the tea. She was Fontaine’s insider in Rome.”
Cassian turned his head slowly, looking down at Mrs. Gable writhing in the
debris.
May you like
The expression that settled over his face was not anger.
It was the absolute, unyielding cold of the executioner.
