Chapter 7 - The Poison in the Cellar
For three days, Penelope carried the heavy burden of Julian’s secret.
She watched Julian at breakfast, noticing how his hands twitched when he held his coffee cup, how he avoided Dominic’s eyes, and how he constantly checked his secure phone.
Salvatore’s health was improving daily, but the tension in the house was becoming unbearable.
On Friday afternoon, Marco, the security chief, approached Penelope while she was organizing the dry storage pantry in the basement.
"Miss Hayes," Marco said, his tone unusually grave. "Mr. Dominic asked me to give you this."
He handed her an envelope. Inside was a set of legal deeds and a check written out in her name for two hundred thousand dollars—a sum more than sufficient to lease and outfit her dream bakery in Brooklyn. Attached was a handwritten note in Dominic’s sharp, decisive handwriting:
For your dream, Penelope. Regardless of what happens tomorrow. - D.
Penelope’s eyes filled with tears as she clutched the paper to her chest. He was protecting her. He was giving her a way out before whatever storm Julian was planning finally hit the estate.
That evening, storm clouds gathered over the Long Island Sound, pouring heavy, relentless rain over the estate.
At 8:00 PM, Dominic was called away to an emergency meeting in Manhattan regarding a sudden industrial fire at one of their primary shipping warehouses—a distraction clearly orchestrated by Julian’s co-conspirators.
Salvatore was in his second-floor study, reading an old Italian history book. Julian was nowhere to be seen.
Penelope decided to prepare a warm chamomile and valerian root tea for Salvatore to help him sleep through the booming thunder. She went down into the secondary kitchen pantry to retrieve a tin of imported honey.
As she stepped near the entrance of the wine cellar, she heard soft, hushed voices inside.
She pressed her body flat against the stone wall, peeking around the arched entryway.
Julian was standing inside the dim wine cellar alongside Leo Vance. On a wooden barrel between them lay a small, dark glass vial.
"Are you sure about this?" Julian whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of terror and greed. "If Dominic finds out—"
"Dominic is stranded in Manhattan for the next three hours," Vance interrupted sharply, grabbing Julian’s lapel. "The fire at the warehouse will keep him occupied. Once the old man takes his evening medicine and goes to sleep, we execute the transfer forms. With Salvatore incompetent and Dominic tied up in a federal investigation over the warehouse, you take control of the Moretti Hospitality board by morning."
"What about the poison?" Julian asked, staring at the glass vial. "Is it traceable?"
"It’s a synthetic cardiac toxin," Vance sneered. "It mimics a massive heart attack. Given the old man’s age and history, the coroners won't question it for a second. Put three drops in his evening tea."
Penelope gasped. She clapped both hands over her mouth, but the sound—faint as it was—echoed off the damp stone walls of the cellar.
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"Who's there?!" Vance barked, drawing a suppressed pistol from his jacket.
Penelope didn't wait. She turned and ran as fast as her legs could carry her up the stone stairs toward the main floor.
