"Someone Is Poisoning You," The Little Maid’s Daughter Whispered That My Fiancée Was Poisoning Me—Then One Butter Dish Exposed the Woman Sent to Inherit My Empire

Isabella didn't scream. She didn't drop to her knees and beg for mercy. A woman trained to infiltrate the Romano empire did not break so easily.

Instead, her beautiful face hardened into a mask of pure, calculated coldness. She stood up slowly, smoothing down her silk gown, her eyes burning with a mixture of hatred and bitter frustration.

"How?" she demanded coldly. "Who told you?"

I didn't answer her. I reached under the rim of the table and pressed a hidden brass button.

Within five seconds, the heavy double doors of the dining room swung open. Santino—my chief of security, a broad-shouldered man with scarred knuckles and a lifetime of absolute loyalty to the Romano name—stepped into the room, two armed guards behind him.

Santino took in the overturned coffee, the butter dish, and Isabella’s defensive posture in a single glance. His hand went instantly under his jacket.

"Don Marco?" Santino asked, his voice low.

"Lock the estate doors," I ordered calmly. "Seize Miss Marchetti’s phone, her laptop, and search her private quarters. Nobody leaves this house."

"Marco, you can't do this!" Isabella snarled, stepping back as Santino closed in on her. "My father is Mayor Marchetti’s cousin! If I disappear, the entire state police force will tear Federal Hill apart!"

"Your family connection is the only reason I haven't put a bullet through your forehead where you stand," I said, rising slowly from my chair. I towered over her, the full weight of my authority pressing down like iron. "The poison in that dish... what was it?"

Isabella clamped her mouth shut, glaring at me in defiance.

"Santino," I said without looking away from her. "Call Dr. Mercer. Have him analyze the contents of that butter dish immediately."

"Right away, Boss." Santino grabbed Isabella by the arm. She tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. "Come on, Miss Marchetti. Let's take a walk to the cellar study."

As they dragged her out, her silk dress rustling against the marble floor, she turned her head and spat, "You think you're safe, Marco? You think this was just me? The whole city is tired of the Romanos! You’re living on borrowed time!"

The doors closed, sealing the room in silence once more.

I walked to the window, looking out over the gardens. Rain had begun to fall, a cold autumn drizzle that swept across the lawn.

Isabella was right about one thing: she hadn't acted alone. A twenty-six-year-old socialite didn't acquire sophisticated, odorless poisons or formulate a plan to slowly paralyze the head of a syndicate without high-level backing.