Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Truce and the Scent of Treason
That evening, Sadie was no longer wearing the gray cotton uniform of a maid.
Instead, she stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the lavish second-floor suite, staring at a stranger. The dress Roman had ordered for her was made of emerald-green silk that clung to her curves like water, falling gracefully to the floor with a daring slit up the side. Her hair had been styled into elegant, cascading waves by a private team sent to her room, and the heavy ruby necklace burned against her collarbone like a branding iron.
She looked like a queen, but she felt like a condemned prisoner waiting for the executioner’s axe.
A sharp knock sounded at the door. Marco stepped inside, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of her before quickly snapping back to his professional, impassive mask.
“The Don is waiting for you in the grand ballroom,” Marco said stiffly. “Watch your step tonight, Sadie. Dmitri Volkov is downstairs.”
Sadie’s heart seized in her chest. *Volkov.* The notorious leader of the Brighton Beach Bratva—the very syndicate her father had owed money to, the man who had ordered hits on everyone who crossed his path.
“Why is he here?” Sadie whispered, her hands shaking as she smoothed the silk of her dress.
“A peace summit,” Marco replied coldly. “Or an ambush. Keep close to the boss. If shooting starts, get behind the bar and stay down.”
When Sadie descended the grand marble staircase, the entire ballroom fell into a stunned silence.
The room was filled with dozens of heavily armed men, split distinctly between Costa soldiers in tailored Italian suits and towering Russian mobsters in heavy leather coats and gold chains.
At the center of the room stood Roman Costa, commanding the space like a Roman emperor. Beside him sat a massive, silver-haired man with cold, reptile-like gray eyes—Dmitri Volkov.
Roman looked up and saw Sadie.
For a fraction of a second, his ruthless, unyielding expression melted into sheer, unfiltered possessiveness. He stepped forward, bypassing his own bodyguards, and extended his hand to her at the foot of the stairs.
Sadie had no choice. She placed her trembling, ice-cold hand into his large, warm palm. Roman immediately pulled her close, his arm wrapping firmly around her waist, anchoring her against his broad frame.
“Gentlemen,” Roman announced, his deep voice carrying over the silence of the room. “Allow me to introduce Sadie. The only woman whose word carries weight in this house.”
Dmitri Volkov’s eyes widened, then narrowed into slits as his gaze traveled from the blood-red ruby around her neck down to her face. A cruel, mocking smile stretched across the Russian boss’s weathered face.
“Well, well, well,” Volkov rasped in heavily accented English, raising his glass of vodka. “So this is where Miller’s little runaway daughter ended up. You paid five hundred thousand dollars to clear her dead father’s debt, Costa. I thought you were expanding your territory, not opening a rescue shelter for stray girls.”
Sadie felt the muscles in Roman’s arm tighten into steel. The air in the room instantly turned toxic. Dozens of men subtly reached inside their jackets, their hands resting on the grips of concealed firearms.
“Sadie isn't a stray, Volkov,” Roman said, his voice dangerously calm, the low hum of a predator ready to strike. “She is mine. And you are standing in my house on borrowed time. Drink your vodka, sign the port distribution agreement, and get out before I decide your presence is an insult.”
Volkov chuckled darkly, though the amusement didn't reach his eyes. “Business first, of course. To peace between families.”
Volkov signaled to his aide, who brought over a silver tray holding two crystal glasses filled with vintage champagne. Volkov picked up one and offered the other toward Roman.
“A toast to our new arrangement,” Volkov said, stepping forward.
Sadie looked at the glass in Volkov’s hand. Something was wrong.
During her three years as a maid, Sadie had spent hundreds of hours cleaning and polishing crystal, learning every detail of high-end service. She noticed the faint, oily sheen floating on the surface of Roman’s champagne—a subtle, shimmering film that didn't belong in vintage Dom Pérignon. Furthermore, Volkov’s thumb was pressed unnaturally hard against the rim of the glass, concealing a tiny scratch near the lip.
Volkov wasn't here to negotiate. He was here to assassinate Roman Costa in his own home.
Roman reached out to take the glass.
“To peace,” Roman muttered coldly, his fingers brushing the crystal stem.
“Stop!” Sadie screamed, her instinct overriding all fear.
Before Roman could lift the flute to his lips, Sadie slapped the crystal glass directly out of his hand.
The champagne glass shattered violently against the marble floor, the golden liquid hissing faintly as it splattered across the polished stone.
The ballroom exploded into chaos.
Chairs flew backward, guns were drawn with deafening metallic clicks, and fifty men aimed weapons at each other in a deadly standoff.
Roman didn't draw his gun. He grabbed Sadie by the shoulders, his dark eyes wide with shock and fury. “Sadie, what the hell are you doing?!”
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“It’s poisoned!” Sadie yelled, pointing at the floor where the champagne had begun to lightly corrode the wax on the marble tiles. “Look at the liquid! He tried to kill you!”
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