Chapter 5 - The Trap at Dawn
At four-forty-five in the morning, the first pink light of dawn began to creep over the Sag Harbor horizon, turning the ocean into a sheet of beaten silver.
Inside the grand master bedroom of the Marchetti mansion, Camila stirred softly under the silk sheets.
She reached out her hand toward Dante’s side of the bed. It was cold. Empty.
Camila sat up, her dark brows knitting together in mild annoyance. She checked her delicate diamond wristwatch. 04:48 AM.
She slid out of bed, pulled on her white cashmere robe, and walked out into the quiet hallway. She expected to find Dante in his study, brooding over his daughter or drinking himself to sleep with Scotch.
As she reached the top of the grand marble staircase, she noticed that the main floor lights were fully lit.
Low, heavy voices echoed up from the dining hall.
Camila paused, her instincts suddenly on high alert. She tiptoed down the stairs, hiding behind the carved mahogany balustrade overlooking the grand hall.
In the center of the hall stood Dante, dressed in his charcoal suit, sipping black coffee.
Surrounding the long mahogany table were eleven men—not just his own captains, but the entire senior leadership of the Delgado syndicate, including the old patriarch himself, sitting in silence.
Beside Dante stood Salvatore Rinaldi, holding a leather briefcase.
Camila felt a sudden, icy knot form in her stomach. Why were the Delgados back? Why was there a meeting at five in the morning?
She smoothed her robe, forced a soft, confused expression onto her face, and glided gracefully down the remaining steps into the light of the grand chandeliers.
"Dante?" she called out, her voice melodious and full of tender concern. "Darling... what's happening? Why are the Delgados here so early?"
Every man at the table turned to look at her. None of them smiled. None of them bowed their heads. Their eyes were cold, hard, and fixed on her like hawks watching prey.
Dante set his coffee cup down with a soft, quiet click against the saucer.
"Good morning, my love," Dante said smoothly. "Forgive me for waking you. We were just finalizing the details of our new security arrangement."
Camila stepped closer to her husband, offering a hesitant smile to the Delgado patriarch. "Security arrangement? Is something wrong?"
"Everything is right, Camila," Dante replied gently. "In fact, I received a wonderful surprise an hour ago. An old friend returned from the dead."
Camila’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "A... a friend?"
Dante signaled to the double doors at the back of the dining hall.
The heavy oak doors swung open.
Two armed Marchetti guards walked into the room, escorting a woman bound in heavy steel handcuffs. She wore a dark trench coat, her blond hair cut short, her face bruised and pale under the bright crystal lights.
Behind her walked Hector Vane—his lightning-shaped scar vivid against his terrified, bloodstained face, held at gunpoint by Leo.
Camila’s breath caught in her throat. Her knees buckled slightly, but she managed to catch herself against the edge of the mahogany table.
The woman in handcuffs looked up.
Despite the short blond hair and the bruised jaw, the features were unmistakable.
It was Elena Marchetti.
"Hello, Camila," Elena rasped, her voice bitter and broken as she glared at her former co-conspirator. "They caught us at the airfield."
The dining hall fell into an absolute, suffocating silence.
Camila’s face drained of every drop of color. The polite, gracious, saintly persona she had carefully maintained for eighteen months shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. She looked from Elena to Hector Vane, and finally to Dante, who stood at the head of the table watching her with cold, empty gray eyes.
"Dante..." Camila stammered, her voice high and panicked as she took a step backward toward the staircase. "Dante, listen to me! I don't know who this woman is! They're trying to set me up! I love you! I love Isabella!"
Dante pulled a small glass vial from his jacket pocket and set it gently on the table.
Beside it, he set a white silk handkerchief—the handkerchief Leo’s men had seized from Camila’s nightstand twenty minutes ago, still saturated with the tasteless paralytic compound she had rubbed onto the rim of his wine glass.
"You left your cloth in the drawer, Camila," Dante said softly. "The house doctor tested it five minutes ago. A lethal dose of Tetrodotoxin-B. Applied to the rim of my glass. Designed to cause sudden respiratory paralysis while leaving the wine clean."
Dante leaned forward across the table, his hands flat on the linen, looking directly into her wide, terrified eyes.
"My daughter was seven years old when she saw you put it there," Dante whispered. "And for six months, you tried to convince me she was insane."
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Camila looked around the room. Eleven mob captains stood up simultaneously, their hands moving inside their suits. The doors behind her clicked shut as two more guards stepped into the entry hall, blocking her only exit.
She was completely, irrevocably trapped.
