A SINS CARVED IN FLESH AND BLOOD

The silence stretched so taut that the steady ticking of the grandfather clock sounded like falling hammer blows. Mrs. Gable kept her hands rigidly folded against her apron, but Clara could see the tremor running through the older woman’s knuckles.

"Sir?" Gable’s voice wavered, losing its haughty resonance. "That is Don Vittorio’s cardiac tonic. Prescribed specifically by Dr. Mercer. It would be entirely improper—"

"I didn't ask for a medical dissertation, Gable," Moreva cut in, his posture dangerously relaxed. He remained half-turned toward his father, but his eyes were fixed on the housekeeper with predatory patience. "I asked you to drink it. If it sustains the life of my father, surely a single sip won't kill a woman of your robust health."

Clara watched the amber glass catch the chandelier’s glow. She knew what was in that vial. For six weeks, she had been forced to watch Gable measure three drops of the clear, bitter extract into the patriarch’s tea every midnight. When Clara had tried to knock the cup over last Tuesday, Gable’s men had pinned her to the cellar floor, leaving the brutal purple bands that still marked her wrists and forearms.

"Mr. Moreva, please," Gable swallowed hard, her throat bobbing visibly. "Your father’s condition is fragile. Dr. Mercer warned us that altering his dosage schedule—"

With a movement too fast for a man of his size, Moreva surged upright. The heavy crystal decanter slammed onto the edge of the dining table, shattering the base and sending amber liquid splashing across the pristine linen. The harsh scent of bitter almond immediately laced the air.

Don Vittorio whimpered, clawing at Clara’s apron, his watering eyes frantic. Clara instinctively covered the old man’s hand with her own, ignoring the burning sting of adrenaline.

Moreva leaned forward, bringing his face inches from Gable's. "Bitter almond. My father doesn't take amygdalin for his heart, Gable. He takes foxglove."

"I... I only administer what the physician provides!" Gable gasped, pressing herself against the dining room’s heavy double doors. "You’ve been away in Palermo for three months! You don't know what it has taken to keep this estate running!"

"I know what treason smells like," Moreva said, his voice dropping to a lethal, velvet whisper. He signaled toward the dark corners of the room. From behind the velvet draperies, two of his personal enforcers stepped forward, their faces like stone carved from granite. "Lock the estate gates. No one enters. No one leaves. And bring Dr. Mercer here before the hour strikes."

The guards seized Gable by the elbows, dragging her out as she began to sob breathless apologies. When the heavy oak doors thudded shut, only Moreva, Clara, and the frail patriarch remained in the cavernous room.