Chapter 4 - The First Dinner in Six Months
The message was written on the warehouse wall.
THE FIRST DOSE FAILED. THE SECOND WON’T.
Norah read the photograph twice.
Then a third time.
“What does that mean?”
Vincent already knew.
“They’re finishing what Salvatore started.”
Norah looked at him.
“By using me.”
“By using my trust in you.”
That distinction mattered.
More than Vincent probably realized.
Back at the mansion, the security team reconstructed the plan.
Salvatore Venn had died, but his organization had fractured rather than disappeared. Several loyalists blamed Vincent for destroying their leader and wanted revenge.
A direct attack would be difficult.
Vincent’s security was too strong.
His food had become the obvious weakness.
Except Vincent barely ate.
Then Norah arrived.
A frightened woman carrying inherited debt.
Someone they believed could be controlled.
They had arranged her employment months earlier, expecting eventually to force her into the kitchen.
But one thing had gone wrong.
Nobody planned for Vincent to stop eating almost entirely.
And nobody could have predicted Norah’s accidental broth.
The trap had created the very thing they needed.
Trust.
Norah sat silently as Enzo explained.
“So the broth was an accident?”
“Yes,” Enzo said.
“They didn’t arrange that?”
“No.”
For some reason, she needed to hear it.
That tiny moment belonged to her.
The smell of garlic.
The chicken bones.
The chipped spoon.
Vincent’s first safe meal.
It had not been engineered.
Vincent looked at her.
“You understand what happens now?”
“They send me something.”
“Yes.”
“And expect me to put it in your food.”
“Yes.”
“So we let them.”
Enzo stared.
Vincent’s expression became dangerous.
“No.”
Norah leaned forward.
“They have Daniel.”
“No.”
“If they think I’m cooperating, they keep him alive.”
“Or they kill you once you’re no longer useful.”
“That’s why your people follow me.”
“No.”
She slammed her hand on the table.
“Stop saying no like that ends the conversation.”
Enzo quietly moved toward the door.
Vincent noticed.
“Stay.”
Enzo stopped, clearly disappointed.
Norah continued.
“My brother is alive because they need leverage. If I refuse, he becomes useless.”
Vincent knew she was right.
He hated it.
For the next two days, they waited.
During that time, something unexpected happened.
Vincent ate dinner.
Not broth.
Dinner.
Norah made roasted chicken, potatoes, carrots, and fresh bread.
Nothing elaborate.
She placed the plate before him.
Vincent stared.
“You’re ambitious tonight.”
“You need protein.”
“I had eggs.”
“That was breakfast.”
“I’m aware of how clocks work.”
“Good. Eat.”
He took a bite.
Then another.
Norah sat across from him with her own plate.
Enzo entered midway through the meal and stopped.
Vincent looked up.
“What?”
Enzo shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“Then stop staring.”
Enzo left.
Outside the dining room, he found Anthony.
“He’s eating.”
Anthony shrugged.
“He’s been eating.”
“No.”
Enzo looked back through the doorway.
“He’s having dinner.”
That was different.
For six months the dining room had become a graveyard of rejected plates.
Now Vincent sat across from a maid, arguing about whether carrots counted as adequate vegetables.
He finished nearly everything.
Afterward, Vincent remained at the table.
Norah gathered the dishes.
“Leave them.”
“It’s literally my job.”
“Not anymore.”
“What is my job?”
Vincent considered that.
“I don’t know.”
“Excellent management.”
He almost smiled.
Then Norah’s phone rang.
Both froze.
Unknown number.
Vincent nodded.
She answered on speaker.
A distorted voice spoke.
“Tomorrow. Union Station. Locker 214. Noon.”
“Daniel?”
“Do what you’re told and your brother walks away.”
The call ended.
The next day, Norah entered Union Station wearing a coat with a tiny transmitter sewn into the lining.
Vincent’s people watched from every direction.
She found locker 214.
Inside was a small sealed bottle.
No label.
And a note.
THREE DROPS. HIS DINNER. TOMORROW.
Norah’s stomach turned.
She did not open it.
She placed everything into the evidence container hidden inside her bag.
Then she returned to the estate.
A private toxicologist examined the liquid.
His conclusion came three hours later.
It wasn’t the same compound used six months earlier.
It was worse.
Vincent listened without expression.
Norah did not.
She left the room and vomited.
Vincent found her sitting on the bathroom floor afterward.
He remained outside the doorway.
“You okay?”
“What do you think?”
He leaned against the wall.
“They were going to make me kill you.”
“They were going to try.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like nothing scares you.”
His face changed.
Norah stood.
“You couldn’t eat soup six weeks ago because you were terrified somebody poisoned it. Don’t stand there and pretend you’re made of stone.”
Vincent looked away.
That was the first time she saw shame on his face.
Not weakness.
Shame about weakness.
Norah softened.
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
“You’re allowed to remember that.”
He looked at her.
Nobody had ever spoken to Vincent Rossy that way.
Norah stepped closer.
“And I’m not putting anything in your food.”
“I know.”
“We’re getting Daniel back.”
“Yes.”
“And then I’m never looking at chicken broth again.”
That finally earned a quiet laugh.
It was brief.
But real.
The plan was simple.
They would pretend Norah had complied.
Vincent would stage a sudden medical emergency after dinner.
Word would leak through compromised channels that he had collapsed.
Whoever controlled Daniel would believe the plan had succeeded.
Then they would move.
Vincent hated the idea of appearing vulnerable.
Norah enjoyed that part more than she admitted.
“You’ll survive the humiliation.”
“I’m reconsidering rescuing your brother.”
“You like me too much.”
The words escaped.
Silence followed.
Vincent stared.
Norah turned bright red.
“I meant—you tolerate me.”
“Do I?”
“Eat your potatoes.”
The staged dinner took place the next evening.
Only six people knew the truth.
Norah cooked.
Security photographed her holding the bottle near Vincent’s bowl.
She never opened it.
Vincent ate normally.
Twenty minutes later, he collapsed in the hallway where a compromised camera would record him.
The footage looked convincing.
Too convincing.
Norah knew it was staged and still felt terror when she saw him hit the carpet.
An ambulance entered through the front gate.
Vincent was secretly transferred to another vehicle.
Within an hour, whispers spread.
Vincent Rossy had been poisoned again.
His condition was critical.
Then they waited.
At 2:13 a.m., Marco Della made a call.
At 2:19, Enzo’s team traced it.
At 2:31, three vehicles left the estate.
Norah remained behind with Vincent.
He stood at the study window.
“You should be with them,” she said.
“No.”
“Daniel is—”
“I know who Daniel is.”
“Then why aren’t you there?”
Vincent turned.
“Because if this is a diversion, they come here next.”
“For you.”
“For you.”
Norah went silent.
A phone rang at 3:06.
Enzo.
Vincent answered.
Norah watched his face.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then:
“Is he alive?”
Norah stopped breathing.
Vincent listened.
“Yes.”
Her knees nearly gave out.
Alive.
Daniel was alive.
Vincent raised a hand before she could celebrate.
Something was wrong.
“What else?”
Enzo spoke.
Vincent’s eyes moved toward Norah.
“They found Daniel.”
“What?”
“He’s alive.”
She laughed and cried at once.
Then Vincent continued.
“But Marco wasn’t holding him.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Who was?”
Vincent lowered the phone.
“The person who ordered your transfer to this estate.”
Norah frowned.
“I thought Marco did.”
“So did we.”
“Then who?”
Vincent stared at her.
May you like
“Someone who has been inside this house every day.”
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