Chapter 10 - POISON IN THE VINTAGE CHIANTI: THE TRAP THAT WASN'T MEANT FOR ME
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The world exploded into thunder, flying plaster, and shattering brick.
Before I could even scream, Luca’s massive body slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs as he tackled me to the hardwood floor, shielding my head and torso with his own frame.
*THWIP-THWIP-THWIP-THWIP!*
Suppressed automatic rounds chewed through the exterior brickwork, obliterating the window frame and sending razor-sharp glass shards raining down onto Luca’s back. I heard the sickening, heavy *thud* of bullets burying themselves into the thick oak joists inches from my head.
"DANTE!" Luca roared over the deafening cacophony of gunfire, rolling onto his side while keeping one arm clamped around my waist like a steel band.
From the front living room, Dante’s suppressed automatic returned fire with three measured, rhythmic bursts—*PUP-PUP-PUP... PUP-PUP-PUP*. A man’s wet, gurgling scream echoed from the exterior fire escape, followed by the heavy, metallic clatter of an assault rifle dropping down the iron stairs into the alley below.
"Two shooters on the fire escape neutralized!" Dante bellowed through the chalk dust. "We have secondary incoming from the alley! They’re using smoke!"
A heavy canister clattered through the broken window, spewing thick, chemical-smelling white smoke across the bedroom floor.
"Up, Olivia!" Luca hauled me to my feet in one violent, fluid motion, snatching the black leather ledger from the floorboards with his other hand and shoving it deep into his inner coat pocket.
The smoke was burning my lungs, stinging my good eye and sending a blinding spike of pain through my bruised cheekbone. Luca kicked open the small utility door at the rear of the bedroom—a narrow service chute originally designed for coal deliveries in the 1920s that led down to the building’s basement furnace.
"Down," Luca ordered, his voice cutting through the panic.
"What?" I coughed, clutching the torn silk of my gown. "Luca, it’s a twenty-foot drop!"
"I’m right behind you! Drop, Olivia!"
I closed my eyes and threw myself into the dark chute.
The descent was a terrifying blur of rusted sheet metal and freezing air before I hit the massive mound of black furnace coal at the bottom, tumbling down the dusty slope and landing hard on the damp concrete floor of the basement. Agony flared through my bruised hip, but no bones were broken.
A half-second later, Luca landed beside me on his feet with the soundless grace of a panther, his Beretta already raised, scanning the shadows of the subterranean boiler room.
"Dante, we are in the sub-level," Luca spoke into his wrist radio, his breathing entirely controlled, his suit covered in black coal dust and white plaster. "Bring the lead car to the rear coal hatch. Suppress the alley."
*"On it, Boss. Thirty seconds."*
Luca grabbed my hand, his fingers interlacing with mine, and hauled me toward the rusted iron doors of the coal hatch. As we emerged into the freezing sleet of the back alley, the heavy armored Escalade screeched backward down the narrow passage, its rear doors flying open.
Tactical operators laid down a blistering wall of covering fire toward the rooftops as Luca literally threw me into the back seat, diving in after me and slamming the reinforced steel door shut just as three rifle rounds hammered into the ballistic glass, starring the outer laminate without penetrating the cabin.
The Escalade surged forward, throwing us back against the leather seats, tires screaming as Dante drifted the three-ton vehicle onto 24th Street and vanished into the storm.
Ten minutes later, the convoy was speeding back toward the safety of the Gold Coast perimeter.
I was shaking uncontrollably, shivering from the cold sleet that had soaked through my torn black gown, my hands black with coal dust, my heart hammering like a dying engine.
Luca was sitting beside me, his tuxedo ruined, a thin line of crimson trickling from a glass scratch along his jawline. He pulled the heavy black ledger from his jacket and placed it on the console.
Then, he looked at me.
Without a single word, he reached over, grabbed the heavy wool blanket from the side compartment, and wrapped it tightly around my trembling shoulders. He pulled me against his side, his large, muscular arm wrapping around my back, drawing my head down against his chest.
"You’re alive, Olivia," he whispered into my hair, his voice vibrating with an intensity that bordered on ferocity. "You’re safe."
"They knew we were coming," I choked out against his damp shirt, my fingers clutching his lapel. "How did they know we were going to the apartment?"
"They didn't," Luca said, his jaw tightening into iron. "Antonio sent a clean-up squad to burn your old residence the moment the Drake meeting collapsed to destroy any secondary evidence linking you to the Moretti bloodline. We just happened to beat the gasoline."
When we returned to the mansion at 11:30 PM, the atmosphere was grim and charged with electricity.
Mrs. Carter gasped when she saw my torn gown and coal-smeared face, immediately rushing forward with warm towels and a basin of scented water. Luca waved off the medical staff, ordering Dante to initiate a full perimeter lockdown and dispatch two additional tactical squads to guard the Oak Brook clinic where Mia was secured.
"Bring the 1998 Chianti Classico from the private cellar to my study," Luca instructed the butler as we entered the grand library on the second floor. "And two glasses. Miss Vance and I have work to do."
The library was warm, dominated by a roaring stone fireplace and walls lined with thousands of leather-bound volumes. Luca set the Black Book of Cook County on the massive mahogany desk, opening the brass clasps under the warm glow of the reading lamp.
I sat in the deep leather armchair beside the hearth, sipping hot water from a porcelain mug, my body slowly stopping its violent shivering as the fire baked the chill from my bones.
Five minutes later, the secondary butler—a quiet, nervous man named Thomas who had served the estate for three years—entered the library carrying a silver tray. On the tray sat an open bottle of vintage Chianti Classico and two delicate crystal goblets, already poured with dark, ruby-red wine.
"Your wine, Don Moretti," Thomas said softly, his hands trembling slightly as he set the tray on the corner of the mahogany desk.
"Leave us, Thomas," Luca said without looking up from the yellowed pages of the ledger.
"Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir. Miss Vance." The butler bowed quickly, practically rushing out of the room, pulling the heavy double doors shut behind him.
Luca turned a page, his eyes tracking down a column of handwritten names from 1978. "This ledger doesn't just implicate Antonio Bellini, Olivia. It contains the signatures of the last three mayors of this city. It contains the private bank accounts of the State Police superintendent. With this book, the Moretti family doesn't just control the docks—we control the entire state of Illinois."
He reached out blindly toward the tray, his fingers closing around the stem of the crystal wine goblet.
He lifted it toward his lips.
I looked at the silver tray.
In the reflection of the polished silver surface, illuminated by the firelight, I noticed something faint—a tiny, crystalline residue clinging to the rim of the second glass, the one placed closest to the edge of the tray. A faint, almost imperceptible smell of bitter almonds drifted across the hearth, cutting through the rich, oaky aroma of the vintage Chianti.
My mind flashed back to my six months of domestic training under Mrs. Carter.
*Rule Seven: Wine is always uncorked and poured in the presence of the master. A pre-poured glass from the scullery is an immediate safety violation.*
"Luca, STOP!" I screamed, lunging out of the leather armchair.
I slapped the crystal goblet from his hand.
The glass shattered against the edge of the mahogany desk, spraying dark crimson wine and shards across the Persian rug. A few drops splashed onto the polished brass base of the desk lamp; within three seconds, the brass began to bubble and hiss, the chemical reaction stripping the lacquer away in a violent, corrosive froth!
Luca froze, his eyes dropping to the bubbling froth on the brass.
Cyanide.
A lethal dose, mixed directly into the Chianti.
Luca’s face didn't register fear; it drained of all humanity, turning into a terrifying mask of absolute, glacial murder.
He didn't look at the broken glass. He looked toward the heavy library doors.
"Thomas," Luca whispered, his voice so quiet it sounded like a ghost exhaling in the dark.
He reached beneath his jacket, drew the Beretta, and racked the slide with a sharp, echoing *CLACK*.
He turned to me, his slate-gray eyes blazing with a dark, terrifying promise as he took my hand, pulling me behind him.
"Stay close, Olivia," Luca said, his voice dropping into the abyss. "The purge begins tonight."
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THE MOST FEARED MAFIA BOSS NOTICED MY BRUISED EYE AT HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER: PART 3 (FINAL CHAPTERS 11-15)
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