Madama Celli’s smile was too wide, too fixed, like a porcelain mask. The scent of sweet anise and honeyed fig, rich from the basket in her arms, hung thick and heavy in the quiet suite. Corelia instinctively pulled the cashmere blanket tighter, a small, subtle movement. Roccano, still beside her, shifted almost imperceptibly, his eyes narrowing on the woman at the door. The air grew dense and still. “My dear Corelia,” Celli purred, her voice a silken ribbon, completely at odds with the sharp edge Corelia remembered from her previous life. “I heard you were feeling indisposed. It pained me deeply.” She swept into the room, her elegant robes rustling, bypassing Roccano entirely to place the basket on the low table near Corelia’s chaise. “I brought your favorites from the old Montavi bakery. And a special tea, brewed just for you.” She produced a delicate, steaming ceramic pot from a velvet pouch at her waist. The aroma of calming herbs wafted from it, layered with something else, an oily musk beneath the surface sweetness. Corelia, with her preternatural senses in this new body, identified the faintest hint of ground lotus-root – a potent, insidious sedative. Celli poured a cup with practiced grace, extending it to Corelia. “A little something to soothe your nerves, my pet. Your husband, Cervan, is quite beside himself with worry, you know. He truly believes you belong at his side, and I agree. Your place is with him, rebuilding the Montavi legacy together.” Corelia slowly blinked, her eyes half-lidded. Arguing was too much effort, especially when the goal was so clearly to drug her. “It’s… too hot,” she drawled, gesturing vaguely at the steaming cup with a languid hand. “I prefer my tea lukewarm, Madama. Always have.” Celli’s smile faltered, a hairline crack appearing in the porcelain facade. “Too hot? Nonsense, it’s perfect, my dear. Just a sip, for me?” Her tone hardened imperceptibly. “You seem… detached, Corelia. This isn’t like you. Your grandfather would be heartbroken to see you forsaking your duties, your family.” She glanced pointedly at Tavio, who had paused his drawing, his small face etched with concern from his seat across the room. “Tavio’s duties are to his studies,” Corelia said, her voice soft but firm, a ripple of steel beneath the velvet. “My duties are to myself. And to him.” Celli’s gaze lingered on Tavio. “Indeed. A boy needs his inheritance secure, doesn’t he? Especially in these volatile times. The Montavi trust, while substantial, requires prudent stewardship. Without the proper influence…” Her words trailed off, the warning stark in the ensuing quiet. Tavio flinched, his small hands clenching on his stylus. His innocent eyes flickered between Celli’s unsettling smile and his sister’s placid face. He understood. His sister was too tired to fight, but he wasn’t. He would inspect his own trust fund, silently, step by step. He would protect Corelia, just as she protected him. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Just as Corelia prepared to simply close her eyes and pretend to fall asleep, Roccano’s voice cut through the tension, cool and smooth as polished stone. “Madama Celli,” he said, stepping forward, his imposing frame blocking the sunlight from the window. “A fascinating choice of words. ‘Prudent stewardship.’ I find myself in agreement.” Celli’s head snapped towards him, her eyes wide with surprise. She had clearly forgotten his presence. “Signore Di’Veltro. I… I was only offering Corelia some comfort.” “Comfort is something I ensure personally for my guests,” Roccano replied, his gaze unwavering, sharp as a predator’s. “And as for meticulous management, I took the liberty of implementing some of my own. Cervan Loxari’s assets, for instance, are now entirely frozen.” The words landed with the force of a physical blow. Celli’s mouth fell open, her composed facade shattering. Her gaze darted to Corelia, then back to Roccano, fear blooming in her eyes. “Frozen?” she whispered, a desperate hope in her voice. “But… on what grounds?” “Embezzlement, for starters,” Roccano stated, his tone utterly casual, as if discussing the weather. He gestured towards the large arched window overlooking the Veltro Grand Consortium’s main courtyard. “Ah, speak of the devil.” Corelia, Tavio, and Celli all turned. Below, bathed in the late afternoon sun, Cervan Loxari was being marched across the pristine cobblestones. Two burly men in the Veltro uniform, their faces grim, held his arms, their grip firm as iron. Cervan’s face was blotchy red, his expensive suit disheveled, hair askew. He stumbled, tried to pull away, but the guards were implacable. Several high-society figures, arriving for evening functions, paused their strolls, pointing, whispering, their expressions a mix of shock and schadenfreude. A fourth man, clearly a security chief, walked ahead, holding a pair of gleaming silver handcuffs. As they reached a sleek, armored transport, the cuffs flashed as they were snapped onto Cervan’s wrists. He was roughly bundled into the vehicle, which sped away, leaving only murmurs and gaping onlookers in its wake. Celli stood frozen, her face ashen, the basket of pastries forgotten. She looked from the empty courtyard back to Roccano, then to Corelia, who watched the scene with faint, detached amusement. The ghost of a smile touched Corelia’s lips. It was even more satisfying than she’d imagined. So little effort, so much ruin. She leaned back, suddenly feeling a pleasant sense of exhaustion. Roccano, observing Celli’s stunned silence, raised an eyebrow. “It appears your ‘pet’ has chosen her own path, Madama. One that does not involve Cervan Loxari, or his rather precarious finances.” Celli, finding her voice, stammered, “But… the Montavi name! The consortium will… the scandal!” “The Montavi name will be just fine,” Roccano said, his voice dropping to a low, possessive rumble. “Under my protection. As will Corelia. And Tavio.” His gaze pierced Celli’s, leaving no room for argument. “Perhaps it’s time for you to return to your own estate, Madama. I believe you have many… arrangements to attend to.” Celli, utterly defeated, could only nod mutely. She looked at Corelia one last time, a flicker of something calculating behind the fear, then turned and hurried from the suite, the door clicking shut behind her. The quiet returned, deeper and more profound than before. Corelia let out a soft sigh, stretching luxuriously on the chaise. “That was… efficient.” She glanced at Roccano, who was now standing by the window, a sleek black communicator held to his ear. Tavio, meanwhile, had quietly retrieved a small notebook and pencil, already scribbling calculations with a determined frown. Roccano listened intently, his expression unreadable. Corelia watched him, a slow curiosity stirring within her. He had been so effortlessly terrifying, so devastatingly effective. She wondered how deep his influence truly ran. He lowered the receiver, turning to her. “Just confirming the details of Cervan’s detention. The authorities are being… cooperative.” His eyes, dark as midnight, held hers. “My security chief, Gorvan, is overseeing the inventory of Loxari’s assets. It seems we found a few surprises.” Just then, the handset in his grip buzzed again. He raised it, listening for a moment, his brow furrowing. Corelia saw a subtle shift in his posture, a sudden tension. He ended the call, his gaze distant. “Sir?” she heard a faint voice whisper from the device, still slightly open. “Sir, the embezzled funds didn’t go to the mistress—they were routed to a shell company owned by the Montavi household.”

Poisoned Pastries