Chapter 6 - The Poisoned Feast
By nine o'clock that evening, a violent thunderstorm rolled over the Gulf Coast, plunging New Orleans into torrential downpours and blinding flashes of lightning. The heavy rain beat furiously against the estate's high stained-glass windows, masking the sounds of the night.
It was the perfect cover.
In the kitchen, Zora prepared Dominic’s late-night digestif—a glass of twenty-year-old scotch, served precisely at ten o'clock every night before he retired to his master suite.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled a small brown glass bottle from her apron pocket. It was a liquid sedative Mrs. Alvarez used for her chronic insomnia—strong enough to put a grown man into a deep, dreamless sleep for six hours. Mrs. Alvarez hadn't given it to her; Zora had taken it from the housekeeper's cabinet while the older woman was changing linens upstairs.
Zora uncorked the bottle, dropping three clear drops into the amber alcohol, watching them dissolve instantly into the liquid.
"Forgive me, God," Zora whispered to the empty kitchen.
She placed the glass on a silver tray and walked up the dark service stairs.
Dominic was sitting in his leather armchair in the study, watching the storm rage against the grand bay windows. He took the glass from her tray without a word, taking a deep, long drink of the poisoned scotch.
Zora stood silently by the door, waiting.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Dominic’s eyelids began to droop. His head nodded forward, his grip on the crystal glass loosening until it slipped from his fingers, spilling the remaining liquid onto the Persian rug. Within moments, the powerful crime boss was snoring softly, fast asleep in his chair.
Zora moved with light, silent steps.
She stepped over to the desk, her heart pounding in her ears like a war drum. Her fingers reached out and snatched the heavy brass ring of keys, sliding the iron key with the red wax seal off the loop.
She tucked the key into her apron, replaced the key ring exactly as she had found it, and darted out of the room.
She ran down the back stairs to her room, opening the door to find the grey-and-white stray dog standing waiting, its tail giving a single, expectant thump against the wall.
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"We have to be fast," Zora whispered, pulling a heavy tactical flashlight from her drawer. "We only have one shot at this."
Together, the Black maid and the stray dog slipped out into the raging storm.
