Chapter 1 - The Glass Vial
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Beatrice stood inside the walk-in pantry, her palm pressed so hard against her mouth that her knuckles turned white. Through the narrow crack between the doors, she watched Evelyn Kensington adjust the belt of her silk robe.
Evelyn held a small glass vial over Vincenzo Costa’s favorite black ceramic mug. A single, clear drop fell into the dark espresso, disappearing without a sound.
“For richer or poorer,” Evelyn whispered to the empty kitchen, a bitter smile curling her lips. “Just not for nothing.”
She stirred the coffee twice, picked up the silver tray, and walked out. Her heels clicked rhythmically against the polished marble until the sound died away down the grand staircase.
Beatrice didn't waste a second. She pushed through the pantry doors, dropped to her knees, and plunged her hands into the stainless-steel trash bin. Coffee grounds and bitter lemon peels clung to her sleeves. The sharp edge of a tin can sliced her thumb, but she kept digging until her fingers closed around cold, thin glass.
She pulled out the vial. A tiny drop of clear liquid sloshed at the bottom.
Wrapping the tube in a clean linen towel, she shoved it deep into her apron pocket. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Vincenzo Costa walked into the kitchen. His black hair was damp from the rain, his designer jacket unbuttoned, and his tie hanging loose around his collar. He looked exhausted, like a man who had just watched his entire world collapse in a single night. Less than an hour ago, he had gathered the household staff to announce that federal agents had frozen his assets, seized his shipping lines, and bankrupted his family.
It was a lie, of course. Vincenzo was testing his inner circle. He wanted to see who would stand by him when the money burned.
He expected his glamorous fiancée to run. Instead, Evelyn had hugged his neck and promised to stay.
“Beatrice,” Vincenzo said, stopping beneath the bright overhead lights. His voice was low and gravelly. “What are you doing here so late?”
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Beatrice stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. She had served this family for six years. She was the maid everyone talked over, the invisible girl who changed the sheets and polished the silver.
“Mr. Costa,” she said, her voice shaking slightly as she pulled the linen towel from her pocket. “Do not drink the espresso Miss Kensington is bringing you.”
