Chapter 2 - The Bitter Brew
The heavy silence inside Maribel’s Café felt thick enough to touch.
Victor Bellini shifted in his seat, his silk-clad shoulders rigid, his eyes darting toward the shattered porcelain pooling dark against the polished oak table. For a man who ruled half the shipping docks along Boston Harbor, Victor looked distinctly uneasy under Dominic Vale’s unblinking gaze.
“It’s a prank, Dominic,” Victor muttered, clearing his throat and forcing a hard, brittle laugh. “Or some neurotic mother teaching her kid to cause a scene. We didn’t come here to discuss kitchenware. We came to talk about the docks on Atlantic Avenue.”
Dominic did not answer him. He remained crouched slightly over the shattered cup, his fingers hovering above the ceramic shard bearing the scratch mark.
He didn’t care about Atlantic Avenue anymore. He didn’t care about the shipments, the territory lines, or the three Bellini soldiers buried under frozen turf. All of that dissolved into static electricity compared to the realization vibrating through his nerves.
That cup was poisoned.
Dominic knew the viscosity of aconite. He knew how quickly a lethal dose dissolved in dark roast without changing its color, leaving only a faint, bitter almond scent that would have gone completely unnoticed beneath the aroma of roasted chicory. If he had taken even one sip before Annie threw herself across the table, his heart would have stopped beating before he reached the sidewalk outside.
“Leo,” Dominic said softly. The word was barely a whisper, but it carried the absolute weight of an execution order.
“Boss,” Leo Santoro murmured, stepping instantly to his side, his hand dropping away from his jacket as he assessed the room with cold, predatory precision.
“Find Mrs. Burke.”
Before Leo could move toward the kitchen doors, the swinging wooden panels flew open. Mrs. Burke, the elderly owner who had run Maribel’s Café for thirty years with flour-dusted apron strings and a sharp tongue, bustled out carrying a fresh tray. She took one look at the shattered porcelain, the spilled coffee soaking into Victor Bellini’s Italian silk, and the pale, rigid faces of the men in the room, and the tray dropped from her hands with a deafening crash.
“Mother of God,” Mrs. Burke whispered, crossing herself. “Mr. Vale... what happened?”
Dominic stood up slowly. He towered over the café owner, his granite jaw set, his gray eyes burning with a terrifying intensity.
“Who brought that cup to this table, Mrs. Burke?” Dominic asked, his voice dead flat, carrying a cold menace that made the old woman recoil.
“I... I don’t know,” she stammered, trembling. “It wasn’t me. I was in the back pantry restocking the espresso beans. A young woman dropped it off at the counter three minutes ago. She said it was a rush order for the VIP table in the corner.”
“What did she look like?” Leo snapped, stepping forward.
“She wore a blue coat. A scarf over her hair. I didn’t see her face clearly, she kept her head down,” Mrs. Burke said, tears welling in her eyes. “Mr. Vale, I swear to you, nobody from my staff would ever—!”
“Where is the little girl?” Dominic interrupted, his head snapping around.
He looked toward the corner booth where Annie Kline had stood moments before.
The booth was empty.
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On the wooden bench sat a small, fraying yellow cardigan and a handful of colored pencils. The front door of the café was swinging slowly on its hinges, a cold draft of November wind sweeping in from Hanover Street, carrying the scent of salt, snow, and exhaust.
She was gone.
