Chapter 2 - The Spilled Barolo
Chloe didn't think. Thinking was for people who had something to lose, and two years of raw grief had stripped her of caution.
As Domenic leaned forward, his silk sleeve angling toward Gabriel’s crystal goblet, Chloe lunged with her tray.
The heavy stainless-steel rim slammed into the stemware with violent precision.
The glass shattered. Deep crimson Barolo exploded across the crisp white tablecloth, splashing against Domenic’s pristine French cuffs and soaking Gabriel’s lapels. The sharp smell of vintage oak, dark cherries, and expensive alcohol filled the room.
Domenic recoiled with a snarl, jumping out of his chair. “What the hell is wrong with you, you clumsy bitch?”
Three lieutenants were on their feet instantly, chairs scraping violently against the hardwood. Two hands slid inside jacket linings.
Gabriel sat completely motionless. The red wine dripped slowly from his cuff onto his polished black oxford shoes. His gaze rose from the shattered crystal to Chloe’s face. It was terrifyingly calm—the kind of calm that preceded an execution.
“Marco!” Domenic roared toward the kitchen door. “Get the manager in here right now! Get this incompetent idiot out of my sight before I throw her into the river!”
Marco burst through the double doors, towel in hand, his face the color of skim milk. “Mr. Costello, Mr. Rossi, I am so sorry, she’s worked eleven hours, she’s exhausted, she—Chloe, get out, go to the back!”
“Wait,” Gabriel said.
He didn't raise his voice, but the single syllable froze Marco mid-step and choked the rage right out of Domenic’s throat.
Gabriel stood up slowly, towering over the table. He pulled a pristine white pocket square from his chest and methodically dabbed at the wine soaking his knuckles.
“You didn’t trip,” Gabriel said, his eyes locked onto Chloe. “You have the balance of a dancer. You’ve been carrying twenty-pound trays through this dining room all night without making a sound.”
Chloe stood her ground, clutching her empty metal tray against her chest like a breastplate. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like an erratic kick drum, but her chin remained up.
Beatrice’s hands were moving frantically in her lap, hidden beneath the edge of the tablecloth. Chloe watched the fingers fly out of the corner of her vision:
Look at his cuff. Look at the glass base.
Chloe took a slow, steadying breath. “Your cousin has very unsteady hands for someone wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit, Mr. Costello. Maybe he shouldn't be reaching across your plate.”
Domenic’s face darkened from irritated to murderous. “Gabriel, she’s out of her mind. Fire her and let’s move to the lounge. We have the union shipment to discuss.”
Gabriel ignored him. He looked down at the dark red puddle spreading across the white linen.
Right in the center of the crimson stain, resting among the jagged shards of crystal, was a tiny, clear plastic stopper—no bigger than the eraser on a pencil. It had popped free from whatever had shattered against the edge of the heavy steel tray.
Gabriel stared at the plastic stopper.
Slowly, his head turned toward Domenic. The temperature in the VIP room dropped twenty degrees.
“Domenic,” Gabriel whispered.
“Gabriel, come on, that’s trash from the bus tub, the girl dropped it—”
“My mother,” Gabriel interrupted, his voice dropping into an icy register that made the hairs on the back of Chloe’s neck stand straight up, “has been trying to tell me something about you for six months. Every Sunday dinner. Every time you brought contracts to her house.”
He turned back to his mother.
Beatrice didn’t flinch. She raised her hands above the table, out in the open, letting the chandelier illuminate every wrinkled finger. She signed deliberately, pausing after each concept so Chloe could speak:
He had your brother killed in Chicago. He told the Santoro family which car Michael was driving.
Chloe felt the words catch in her throat, burning like battery acid. She looked at Gabriel’s terrifyingly still face.
“Translate,” Gabriel ordered.
Chloe swallowed hard. “She says... your cousin Domenic had your brother Michael killed in Chicago. She says he gave the Santoro family the license plate of the car.”
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Domenic didn’t argue. He didn’t plead.
He reached inside his charcoal jacket for his gun.
