Chapter 2 - The Glass Of Red Wine
By one-thirty in the morning, the last limousine had departed from the snow-covered driveway of the Moretti estate. The grand ballroom was quiet, its grand chandeliers dimmed to a low, amber glow.
Downstairs in the scullery, Hannah finished polishing the final silver tray, dried her hands on a linen towel, and removed her apron. Instead of heading toward the staff quarters in the west wing, she walked quietly through the darkened house toward the east conservatory—a soaring glass structure overlooking the black, frozen expanse of Lake Michigan.
Eleanor Moretti sat alone in a high-backed velvet chair beside the frosted glass wall. At seventy-two years old, Dominic’s mother was a formidable woman who had survived three decades of Chicago mob wars beside her late husband. She had mastered the rare art of looking fragile enough for her enemies to underestimate her, while remaining sharp enough to ruin anyone who tried.
On the small table beside her sat an untouched glass of full-bodied red wine.
Hannah walked over, lifted the glass without a word, and replaced it with a cup of warm water infused with a slice of lemon.
Eleanor looked up, her dark eyes piercing despite her frail frame. “You’re becoming bossy, girl.”
“And you’re becoming difficult, ma'am,” Hannah replied softly.
“You’ve only worked in this house for twelve days.”
“That’s proven to be more than enough time to learn your habits.”
A faint smile touched the corners of Eleanor’s lips. “Sit down before you fall over. You look worse than I do.”
Hannah hesitated, then knelt beside the wheelchair, gently taking the older woman’s right hand into her own. She placed two fingertips lightly against the inside of Eleanor’s thin wrist, counting the pulse against the subtle rhythm of her own breathing.
“You’re counting again,” Eleanor noted quietly.
“I’m holding your hand.”
“You hold hands with a stopwatch running in your head?” Eleanor watched her closely. “Why did you take that glass from Vanessa tonight, Hannah?”
Hannah kept her eyes fixed on Eleanor’s wrist. “I told Mr. Moretti. The rim was dirty.”
“Dominic might buy a simple answer when he’s managing a room full of vultures, but I am not my son,” Eleanor said, her voice dropping. “Vanessa offered me that wine right after she stepped out near the service entrance. Two minutes later, you practically tackled her to take it away. You didn't inspect the rim, child. You smelled it.”
Hannah’s pulse spiked, though her expression remained entirely calm. “You have a weak heart, Mrs. Moretti. Heavy tannic wines interact poorly with digoxin.”
Eleanor went completely motionless. “I haven't taken digoxin in five years. Not since my primary physician retired.”
“Then whoever is writing your current prescriptions is giving you something under a different brand name that acts the exact same way,” Hannah said softly, releasing Eleanor’s wrist. “Your radial pulse is bounding, but irregular. You have subtle peripheral edema in your ankles. The wine smelled heavily of bitter almond extracts—digitalis toxicity masked by sweet plum notes.”
Eleanor stared at the young maid. The air in the conservatory felt suddenly ice-cold. “Who are you?”
Before Hannah could answer, a shadow lengthened across the tiled floor of the conservatory.
“I was just about to ask the exact same question,” Dominic’s deep voice echoed from the doorway.
He stepped into the glass room, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. He had removed his vest, rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. His dark eyes were fixed entirely on Hannah, searching every line of her face with ruthless intensity.
Hannah stood up slowly, stepping back from Eleanor’s chair. “I should return to the kitchen. There are still dishes from the event—”
“The dishes are done,” Dominic said smoothly, blocking the exit. “Walter cleared the staff an hour ago. You’re the only one still awake.”
He walked over to the small table, picked up the glass of red wine Hannah had taken from Eleanor earlier, and held it up to the faint moonlight filtering through the glass roof.
“Digoxin,” Dominic said, testing the word on his tongue like a unknown language. “A cardiac medication derived from foxglove. Highly toxic in unmeasured doses. Causes heart failure that looks entirely natural in a woman of seventy-two.”
He turned his gaze back to Hannah. “My mother’s personal medical files are kept in a locked safe in my private office upstairs. There are only three people in this city who have the combination. How do you know what medication she takes?”
“I don't need a file to read symptoms, Mr. Moretti,” Hannah said quietly, keeping her eyes lower than his. “When a person's body is failing, it speaks very clearly if you know how to listen.”
“And where does a twenty-six-year-old housekeeper learn to listen like a senior cardiologist?” Dominic took a step closer, his tall frame looming over her. “I ran a background check on 'Hannah Reed' before you were hired twelve days ago. Social Security card issued in Indiana six years ago. High school diploma from a rural town that closed its records due to a fire. References from two small cleaning agencies in Milwaukee that both went out of business last autumn.”
He paused, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “It’s a clean record. In fact, it’s far too clean. It reads like the ghost stories my lieutenants construct when they need to drop a ghost into a new city.”
Eleanor raised a hand, looking at her son. “Dominic, leave her be. She saved my life tonight.”
“She saved your life by exposing an attempt on it,” Dominic corrected cold-heartedly, his eyes never leaving Hannah. “Which means she either knew what was in that glass because she put it there, or she knew the person who did.”
Hannah looked up, meeting Dominic’s fierce gaze directly for the first time. There was no fear in her dark eyes—only a profound, terrifying weariness. “If I wanted to hurt your mother, Mr. Moretti, I wouldn't have snatched a glass out of your fiancée’s hand in front of a hundred and fifty witnesses. I would have simply let her drink it.”
The logic was undeniable, striking Dominic like a physical blow. He stared at her, analyzing her posture, the lack of hesitation in her voice, the quiet authority that seemed completely foreign to a woman wearing a faded grey servant's dress.
“Who sent you here, Hannah?” Dominic asked softly. “Was it the Falcone family? The Commission in New York?”
“Nobody sent me,” she said. “I applied for a job because I needed a roof over my head and a place where people don't ask to see a medical license.”
Dominic’s eyebrows pulled together. “A medical license.”
Hannah let out a long, slow breath, knowing the fragile wall she had built around herself was crumbling beneath his relentless pressure. “My name isn't Hannah Reed. It’s Dr. Hannah Vance. Four years ago, I was the Chief Resident of Trauma Surgery at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore.”
Dominic stood frozen, digesting the revelation. A trauma surgeon hiding in plain sight as a domestic maid in his Chicago estate.
“Why hide?” Dominic asked. “A chief resident doesn't throw away a medical career to scrub floors in Illinois unless she’s running from a murder charge or a grave debt.”
“It wasn't a murder charge,” Hannah said, her voice dropping so low it was almost lost to the wind howling against the glass conservatory walls. “And it wasn't a debt I can ever pay off with money. I owe a life, Mr. Moretti. And the man who holds that debt is currently hunting for me across five states.”
Before Dominic could press further, the heavy oak doors of the conservatory burst open. Walter hurried into the room, his face pale and sweating despite the midnight cold.
“Mr. Moretti,” Walter gasped out of breath. “You need to come to the front gate immediately. There are three unmarked black SUVs parked across the driveway entrance.”
Dominic’s expression hardened instantly, his mob instincts overriding his curiosity. “Who is it? Falcone’s men?”
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“No, sir,” Walter said, glancing nervously at Hannah. “They aren't local syndicate men. They’re carrying federal badges and state warrants. A man named Dr. Julian Vance is standing at the iron gates with the Chicago Police Captain. He claims his missing wife is being held hostage inside this house.”
Hannah’s face drained of all color, her hands beginning to tremble uncontrollably beneath Dominic’s jacket. “He found me,” she whispered in absolute horror. “Oh God, he found me.”
