Chapter 1 - THE SHADOW OF NORTHWESTERN
The fluorescent lights of Northwestern Memorial Hospital flickered with a dull, rhythmic buzz that grated against Julian DeLuca’s frayed nerves.
He stood outside the Intensive Care Unit, his black tux jacket abandoned, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and stained with faint drops of champagne and silver glitter from Cassandra’s gown. Beyond the reinforced double glass, six doctors moved in frantic, choreographed precision around Cassandra’s bed. Monitors beeped violently, echoing the erratic rhythm of a heart fighting against a lethal synthetic compound.
"It was aconite," Dr. Vance whispered, stepping out of the ICU, his face pale against his surgical mask. "Concentrated monkshood extract, laced into the champagne flute. If she had taken a second sip, Mr. DeLuca, she would be dead. As it stands, her organs are failing. We’ve placed her in a medically induced coma to stabilize her cardiovascular system."
Julian’s jaw flexed, a hard muscle twitching along his cheek. "Who was the glass meant for?"
Dr. Vance hesitated, glancing nervously at the two armed guards standing on either side of Julian. "The concentration suggests it was designed to kill an adult male within two minutes of ingestion. Miss Vale drank less than a quarter of the flute... but if a man of your build had drained the glass as a toast..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
The poison wasn't meant for the fragile, beautiful ballerina who had just surrendered her pride to a maid’s child. It was meant for the last heir of the DeLuca criminal dynasty.
Julian turned to Marco, his chief of security—a stone-faced man who had taken three bullets for the DeLuca family over fifteen years. "Where are Nora and the child?"
"In your private holding suite on the ninth floor," Marco replied, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "My men are at the door. No one enters or leaves without my personal approval."
"And Thomas?" Julian asked, his dark eyes narrowing into frozen slits. "Where is the head butler?"
Marco swallowed hard, a rare flash of unease crossing his rugged face. "He vanished three minutes after the ambulance left the estate. His phone is dark, his personal vehicle was left in the lower driveway, and security footage shows he walked out through the east garden gate into an unmarked black sedan."
Julian’s fist slammed into the concrete pillar beside him, the impact sounding like a gunshot in the silent hallway.
Thomas Bell had been his anchor. When Julian’s father was gunned down on the steps of the Cook County Courthouse, it was Thomas who wiped the blood from sixteen-year-old Julian’s hands. It was Thomas who made sure the young heir ate, slept, and learned how to rule without letting cruelty rot his soul.
May you like
To accept that Thomas had served him a glass of death was to accept that his entire life for thirty-eight years had been built on a foundation of sand.
"Bring me the maid," Julian commanded, his voice devoid of heat, carrying only a terrifying, absolute chill. "It’s time Nora Bennett told me why my dead fiancee’s dance is living inside her daughter’s bones."
