Chapter 4 - Tea with the Serpent
The grand dining room of the Kade estate was flooded with pale November sunlight filtering through twenty-foot arched windows.
Genevieve Marchetti sat at the head of the long mahogany table, looking every bit the princess of Chicago's underworld. At twenty-eight, she was effortlessly striking—slender, with jet-black hair styled in sleek waves, icy blue eyes, and a wardrobe of designer silk that oozed unearned wealth.
She held a gold-rimmed teacup in her manicured hand, taking a slow sip before looking across the table at Weston.
"The wedding venue in Miami has been confirmed for the fifteenth, Weston," Genevieve said, her voice smooth and melodic like honey poured over glass. "My father wants two hundred security passes issued for our family lieutenants. He insists on controlling the perimeter."
Weston sat opposite her, cutting a slice of rare steak with steady, methodical movements. "Your father is very generous with his security concerns, Genevieve."
"He just wants us to be safe, darling," Genevieve smiled, reaching across the white tablecloth to touch his wrist. Her fingers were long and cold, bearing a three-carat diamond engagement ring that Weston had bought her under pressure six months ago. "After what happened to Odalys and little Nadia... we can never be too careful, can't we?"
Weston’s eyes flicked to her hand on his wrist. He didn't pull away, but his pulse didn't accelerate by a single beat.
"Yes," Weston said softly. "We must always remember what happened to Odalys."
The heavy oak doors of the dining room opened, and Clara walked in carrying a silver tray with a fresh pot of Earl Grey tea and a bowl of lemon slices.
She was wearing her dark grey maid's uniform, her hair pulled back neatly in a hairnet. Her hands were steady on the tray, but her eyes were fixed strictly on the floor.
"Ah, the new staff," Genevieve remarked, barely glancing at Clara as she held out her cup. "Pour, please. And leave the lemon."
Clara stepped up to the table, her rubber-soled shoes making no sound against the rug. She lifted the silver teapot and poured the steaming liquid into Genevieve’s cup.
As she lowered the pot, her hand brushed against the edge of Genevieve’s silk sleeve.
Genevieve pulled her arm back as if touched by fire, her blue eyes flashing with instant, toxic disdain. "Watch yourself, girl! This jacket is hand-sewn Italian silk!"
"I... I am so sorry, ma'am," Clara whispered, bowing her head, stepping back.
Genevieve snapped her fingers at Clara’s face. "Look at me when I speak to you. Where did Weston hire such incompetent—"
Genevieve froze.
Her words died in her throat. Her blue eyes expanded, the pupils shrinking to tiny pinpricks as she looked directly into Clara’s face.
She recognized her.
Even after three years, even with Clara’s gaunt cheeks and faded clothes, Genevieve recognized the face of the gas station attendant who had seen Detective Miller spraying petrol on Odalys’s car three years ago. The girl who was supposed to have been hunted down and eliminated by Miller’s men within a week of the bombing.
The silver teacup in Genevieve’s hand trembled. A drop of amber liquid spilled over the lip, staining the pristine white tablecloth.
"Is something wrong, Genevieve?" Weston asked, his voice dripping with terrifying, soft curiosity.
Genevieve swallowed hard, forcing her gaze away from Clara and back toward Weston. Her smile was rigid, panic flickering behind her icy eyes like a trapped insect.
"No... no, darling," Genevieve stammered, her hand shaking as she set the teacup down. "Just... a sudden headache. I think... I think I need to leave."
"Leave so soon?" Weston smiled—a slow, predator's grin that made the hair on the back of Genevieve’s neck stand up. "We haven't discussed the guest list for Detective Vance Miller yet. I hear your father just promoted him to Chief of Security for the Marchetti holding companies."
Genevieve’s breath hitched. She stood up so quickly her chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor.
"I must go," she insisted, grabbing her designer leather handbag. "My father is expecting me at the club."
She practically ran out of the dining room, her high heels clicking frantically down the marble corridor until the front doors slammed shut behind her.
Clara stood by the table, trembling. "She knows... Mr. Kade, she knows who I am!"
Weston stood up, walking around the table until he stood beside Clara. He reached out and gently laid a hand on her shoulder.
"I know she does," Weston said, his grey eyes burning with an ancient, dark fire. "And by two o'clock today, she will call her father and Detective Miller in a blind panic. They will move their strike timeline up. They will try to hit this house before I can use you as a witness."
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"You... you used me as bait?" Clara asked, her eyes wide with fear.
"I used us all as bait, Clara," Weston corrected softly. "Because when the snake comes out of its hole to strike, that is the exact moment you cut off its head."
