Chapter 1 - The Glass He Was Never Supposed to Finish
The first sign that Dominic Rinaldi was going to die was not the wine.
It was the way Celeste stopped screaming.
Three seconds earlier, she had been standing at the head of the private dining table, calling me an ignorant little waitress who had no business speaking Italian.
Then the sommelier reached for Dominic's glass.
Celeste went silent.
And I saw her smile.
Not the sharp, cruel smile she had worn while humiliating me.
This one was smaller.
Almost relieved.
I had worked in fine dining long enough to know the difference between a woman enjoying someone else's embarrassment and a woman watching a plan finally come together.
I was about to learn just how expensive that difference could be.
"Mr. Rinaldi."
The sommelier leaned forward, holding a dark green bottle wrapped in a white service cloth.
"Your Barolo, sir."
Dominic didn't look at him.
He was still staring at the document lying open beside his dinner plate.
The document I had translated less than two minutes earlier.
The document his attorneys had assured him meant one thing when the Italian annotation clearly meant another.
Across the table, Celeste adjusted the diamond bracelet on her wrist.
"Dominic, darling, the wine is getting warm."
He raised his eyes.
"Since when do you care what temperature I drink my wine?"
Her smile tightened.
"Since you started embarrassing our guests."
The sommelier poured.
I watched the dark red liquid curl into the crystal.
I watched his wrist.
I watched the bottle.
Then I noticed something that made the back of my neck go cold.
The small cream-colored collar beneath the foil had been cut.
Not torn from opening.
Cut.
A thin diagonal mark crossed the paper just above the glass shoulder.
I had served enough old bottles to know that damaged labels weren't unusual.
But this particular bottle had been displayed in the service alcove twenty minutes earlier.
I remembered because its vintage was older than I was.
And because the collar had been intact.
"Sir."
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
Dominic looked at me.
"Yes, Miss Bennett?"
"Please don't drink that."
The room stopped breathing.
Celeste's chair scraped backward.
"Excuse me?"
I kept my eyes on the glass.
"I need you to leave it on the table."
The sommelier froze with the bottle halfway between two place settings.
Dominic slowly lowered his hand.
"Why?"
I could have lied.
I could have said the wine smelled wrong.
I could have invented a broken cork, an improper serving temperature, anything that would let me remove the glass without accusing someone.
Instead, I looked at the bottle.
"Because that isn't the bottle I saw in the service alcove."
Celeste laughed.
It was a beautiful laugh.
And completely empty.
"Oh, for God's sake."
She turned toward the restaurant manager.
"Paul, remove this girl before she makes another ridiculous accusation."
Paul Mercer stood near the door, his face pale.
He didn't move.
Dominic continued watching me.
"What changed?"
"The paper beneath the foil."
"Explain."
"There was no cut in the collar when I checked the service setup."
The sommelier spoke for the first time.
"Older bottles are fragile, sir."
"What's your name?" Dominic asked.
"Adrian."
"Full name."
"Adrian Bellini."
"And did you personally retrieve this bottle?"
Adrian glanced toward Celeste.
It lasted less than a second.
But I saw it.
So did Dominic.
"Mr. Bellini."
Dominic's voice became dangerously quiet.
"Answer the question."
"No, sir."
"Who did?"
Adrian swallowed.
"The bottle was brought from the private reserve."
"By whom?"
Before he could answer, Celeste slammed her palm against the table.
"This is insane."
Dominic turned to her.
"Sit down."
She stared at him.
"What did you say?"
"I said sit down."
The command landed so hard that even the attorneys flinched.
Celeste lowered herself into her chair.
Dominic picked up his phone.
"Nobody touches the table."
One of the lawyers, a silver-haired man named Charles Whitcomb, reached toward the document.
Dominic looked at his hand.
"That includes the paper, Charles."
Whitcomb withdrew his fingers.
Dominic made a call.
"Gabriel."
A pause.
"Seal the private dining corridor."
Another pause.
"And bring Dr. Levin upstairs."
Celeste's eyes narrowed.
"You're calling a doctor because a waitress doesn't like a wine label?"
Dominic ignored her.
His attention returned to me.
"Miss Bennett, how certain are you?"
I felt every eye in the room settle on my face.
A rich woman wanted me fired.
A billionaire was asking me to accuse someone of tampering with a bottle worth more than three months of my rent.
And my mother was waiting in Queens for the money I was supposed to bring home.
"Certain enough that I'd rather lose my job than watch you drink it."
Dominic studied me.
Then he moved the glass away.
That was when Celeste made her first real mistake.
She said, "You don't even know what's in it."
Nobody had mentioned poison.
Nobody had claimed to know that the wine contained anything dangerous.
I looked at Dominic.
He looked at Celeste.
For the first time all evening, the woman who had controlled every conversation appeared to have forgotten how to speak.
"What," Dominic asked slowly, "is supposed to be in it?"
Celeste recovered.
"Nothing."
"Then why did you say that?"
"Because this girl is making an accusation."
"I asked her about a damaged bottle."
"Everyone knows what she's implying."
Dominic leaned back.
"Do they?"
The door opened.
A large man in a charcoal suit entered, followed by a younger woman carrying a black medical case.
The man looked around the room.
"Mr. Rinaldi."
"Gabriel, where is the security footage from the service corridor?"
"Being preserved."
"Good."
Dominic pointed toward the bottle.
"Nobody removes that."
Then he pointed toward the document.
"And nobody leaves with that."
Gabriel followed the direction of his hand.
"Understood."
Celeste stood again.
"You cannot seriously intend to detain your own dinner guests."
Dominic's expression didn't change.
"I'm not detaining anyone."
He glanced at Gabriel.
"But anyone who leaves before speaking with the police should understand that we'll provide their name and the footage."
The distinction was deliberate.
I noticed.
So did Whitcomb.
The doctor approached the table.
"I'm Dr. Elaine Levin."
She didn't touch the glass.
Instead, she looked at Dominic.
"Have you consumed any of this wine?"
"No."
"Any from this bottle earlier?"
"No."
"Are you experiencing any symptoms?"
"No."
"Then we should preserve the bottle and glass for proper testing rather than guessing."
Dominic nodded.
"That's what I intend."
The doctor examined the bottle visually without disturbing it.
I saw her eyes pause at the cut collar.
"Do you have another guest who drank from this bottle?"
"No," Adrian whispered.
A sharp crash came from the service corridor.
Gabriel turned.
One of his security men spoke through an earpiece.
His expression changed.
"Sir."
Dominic looked up.
"The employee who delivered the bottle has collapsed near the freight elevator."
Adrian grabbed the back of a chair.
Celeste went pale.
And Dominic looked directly at me.
"Miss Bennett."
"Yes?"
"Don't leave this room."
At that moment, I thought he was ordering me to stay because I had witnessed the wine service.
I didn't understand that he was already trying to protect me.
Then the service door opened again.
A young busboy stood in the doorway, shaking so badly that the tray in his hands rattled.
"Mr. Rinaldi."
His eyes filled with tears.
"The man by the elevator."
May you like
He swallowed.
"He said the waitress was next."
