Marcella felt chilled lead crystal press into her palm, its stem slick from Livia’s fingers. Golden bubbles climbed the glass, masking whatever bitter extract had been stirred into the vintage. Livia leaned back, emerald silk catching the chandeliers, her smile razor-thin. “A toast, then, to our enduring bond, dearest cousin.”
Marcella tilted her chin, offering a level, bloodless smile. “Of course, Livia. Though good fortune deserves wider distribution.” She turned, redirecting the glass toward a passing shipping dowager whose braying laughter usually cleared smoking rooms. “Contessa Verrini, you simply *must* sample this vintage. An exquisite Nektaris from our private reserve.”
The dowager paused mid-stride, dry parchment skin crinkling in surprise. “Oh, my dear, how thoughtful. But I truly couldn’t impose.”
“Nonsense,” Marcella said smoothly, slotting the stem between the older woman’s gloved fingers. “Leaving such notes to uneducated palates would be criminal. And I have already indulged. One must circulate, mustn’t one?”
Livia’s jaw tightened before she smoothed her features back into porcelain composure. “Always the generous hostess, Marcella.” She lifted a fresh flute from a passing silver salver, her focus pinned to the contessa, who was already inspecting the pale amber hue.
Marcella drifted away, leaving Livia to watch her poisoned offering potentially claimed by an unintended victim. Pompeo, draped in an iridescent silver tunic that shimmered like fish scales, appeared at her side. “Darling! The drama! I saw your little hand-off. A true maestro of social defenestration. Is that *the* glass?”
“One of them,” Marcella murmured, accepting a fresh, unblemished flute from a waiter. “Livia likes to hedge her bets.”
The ballroom was a whirl of colour and hushed conversations. The central runway, where Pompeo’s 'Swan' collection would soon glide, was a beacon of anticipation. Zeno stood near the entrance, a dark, imposing silhouette against the glittering backdrop, his gaze constantly sweeping the room, stopping briefly on her before moving on. A subtle nod, a silent affirmation of their coordinated vigilance.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the grand staircase. Heads turned. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. A figure, swathed in bandages like a poorly mummified exhibit, stumbled down the marble steps. His expensive suit was rumpled, his hair askew, and his eyes, visible through the gaps in the gauze, were wide with desperation.
It was Teodoro Ghiberti.
He lurched towards Marcella, ignoring the appalled stares, the murmurs of scandalized guests. “Marcella!” His voice was hoarse, raw, carrying across the stunned silence of the room. “Marcella, my love, you must forgive me! I was… I was a fool!”
He collapsed at her feet, a pathetic heap of linen and desperation, clutching at the hem of her gown. “The ledger, Marcella! I have it! I brought it for you! Just say you’ll take me back, say you’ll protect me from… from *her*!” His gaze darted frantically towards Livia, who stood frozen, her face a mask of furious disbelief.
The entire Founders’ Gala, a bastion of decorum, devolved into a spectacle. Society matrons fanned themselves with exaggerated vigour. Pompeo shielded his mouth behind a gloved hand, nostrils flaring with delight. “Oh, honey, this has more drama than my entire runway,” he muttered.
Marcella stared down at Teodoro, her expression utterly unreadable. His plea was a desperate, tactical ploy, designed to force her hand, to expose Livia’s guilt. But it was also a grotesque display of public humiliation, a violation of every social grace. He was practically slobbering on her shoes.
In his flailing, Teodoro’s hand knocked a nearby salver. Crystal rang sharply. He snatched up an abandoned, half-drained flute—the very Nektaris discarded moments ago beside a tray of oysters by an oblivious Contessa Verrini.
Before Marcella could react, before Zeno, who had begun a swift, purposeful stride towards them, could intervene, Teodoro brought the glass to his lips. He tilted his head back, gulping the contents down with a convulsive swallow, as if it were pure water after a desert trek.
“A toast,” he rasped, his eyes fixed on Marcella, a flicker of something like hope in their depth. “To us, Marcella. To our future.”
Marcella watched, immobile, as the man who had once been her fiancé, the man whose life she had meticulously planned to dismantle, ingested the poison meant for her. Silence locked the ballroom. Teodoro’s pupils dilated until the irises vanished. White foam crested his split lips, and his spine arched backward in a violent, rattling seizure.
He made a gurgling sound, his hand reaching out, blindly, towards Marcella, before his eyes snapped open, wide and staring, fixed on nothing. His limbs went rigid, then slack. With a sickening thud, Teodoro Ghiberti collapsed onto the grand staircase, a crumpled, bandaged marionette whose strings had been cut.
Livia’s sweet facade shattered. Her face contorted into a snarl of pure, unadulterated rage. Her hand, moving with terrifying speed, plunged into her ornate evening bag. She drew a slim, suppressed pistol from the satin folds, leveling the matte muzzle squarely at Marcella’s breastbone.