Chapter 7 - The Eve of the Vows
Night fell over the Rienzi estate in a quiet, heavy rain. Thunder rolled faintly in the distance over the ocean bay, casting flickering blue light across the tall windows of the grand mansion.
Down in the estate’s secondary wing, inside the warm and quiet servant quarters, Fatima was tucking three-year-old Amara into her small bed.
Amara lay beneath a soft pink blanket, her long light-brown hair spread across the pillow, clutching her worn stuffed lamb tightly against her chest.
"Mommy?" Amara whispered, her wide brown eyes looking up at her mother in the dim lamplight.
"Yes, my sweet girl?" Fatima asked gently, smoothing a soft strand of hair from her daughter's forehead.
"Is the fake lady going to be the boss tomorrow?" Amara asked softly.
Fatima froze for a moment, her heart aching with protective worry. She leaned down, pressing a warm kiss against her daughter's cheek. "No, sweetie. Mr. Rienzi is the boss. And Mr. Rienzi promised we are safe."
"Mr. Rienzi is nice," Amara murmured sleepily, her eyelids growing heavy. "He listened to me."
"Yes, he did," Fatima whispered softly. "Now close your eyes and sleep."
Meanwhile, on the third floor in the master suite, Genevieve stood before the vanity mirror, holding a small silver vial of clear, odorless liquid.
Her hands trembled slightly as she looked at her reflection. She pulled her private burner phone from her silk robe, dialing her handler in Chicago.
"I don't like the way Alessandro is looking at me," Genevieve whispered frantically into the receiver, her sweet voice replaced by sharp, desperate panic. "He’s too calm. I think he knows something!"
On the other end of the line, the raspy voice of Don Falcone answered coldly: "It doesn't matter what he suspects, Genevieve. The rehearsal dinner is over, and the high-society guests are already sleeping in the guest wings. Tomorrow morning, you walk down that aisle, you sign the register, and you drop that vial into his ceremonial wine toast."
"And if he refuses to drink?" Genevieve gasped.
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"If he refuses to drink, my strike team breaches the estate gates at noon," Falcone growled. "One way or another, Alessandro Rienzi dies tomorrow."
Genevieve closed her eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath, and clutched the silver vial against her chest as the storm raged outside her window.
