Chapter 2 - Twelve Minutes to Chaos

The swinging door from the service corridor opened with a soft, brushed-metal click.

Paige Lawson stepped into the private dining room, her hands perfectly steady, carrying the remaining two dessert plates. Her heart was beating so hard against her ribs she felt as though it might burst through her black server's vest.

She knew what she had seen. Through the frosted glass panel, she had watched Monica Valleti open her clutch, extract a tiny paper fold, and sprinkle something over the plate marked with the edible ink letter L—the panna cotta destined for Lorraine Valleti.

Monica had just sat back down, offering her husband, Tristan, a soft, devoted smile, smoothing the front of her champagne-colored dress as if she had done nothing more than adjust her napkin.

Paige approached the mahogany side table where the first two plates sat under silver domes.

She didn't hesitate.

In one smooth, fluid motion that looked entirely like standard VIP service protocol, Paige picked up the spiked plate meant for Lorraine and swapped its position with the secondary dessert plate meant for Tristan.

Her fingers brushed the cold china rim. She set the poisoned plate down directly in front of Tristan Valleti.

Then she placed the clean, safe panna cotta in front of Lorraine.

"Dessert is served, Mrs. Valleti," Paige said, her voice smooth, polite, and completely devoid of tremor.

Lorraine looked up, her silver hair catching the candlelight, and offered Paige a faint, genuine nod. "Thank you, dear."

Beside her, Corbin Valleti’s sharp, dark eyes flicked toward Paige. He didn't say anything, but his gaze lingered on her name tag for two long seconds—a quiet, calculating observation that made the hairs on the back of Paige's neck stand up.

Monica leaned across her seat, her eyes locking onto the plate in front of Lorraine.

Paige saw the subtle shift in Monica's expression—the tiny, triumphant tightening of her jaw as she watched the elderly matriarch pick up her silver dessert spoon.

"Tristan, honey, you should try yours first," Monica suggested sweetly, reaching out to pat her husband's arm. "You've been complaining about your stomach all evening."

"I'm fine, Mon," Tristan smiled, taking a generous spoon of the panna cotta sat directly in front of him—the plate Paige had just moved.

The clock on the wall read 9:51 PM.

Paige backed away toward the service door, her apron tight against her waist, her breath held in her chest.

Twelve minutes passed in complete, agonizing silence, broken only by the quiet clink of silver against china and the low murmur of Corbin’s deep voice discussing property acquisitions.

Then... the glass fell.

Tristan’s water glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the black oak table.

He gasped, both hands flying to his throat, his face turning an alarming, dusky shade of purple. His eyes rolled backward, his chair scraping violently against the hardwood as he collapsed sideways onto the floor, thrashing in violent, uncontrolled convulsions.

"Tristan!" Monica shrieked, jumping to her feet, her champagne dress catching on the table edge.

Lorraine dropped her spoon, her face turning pale as snow. "My son! Corbin, help him!"

Corbin was on his feet instantly. He didn't panic. He moved like a predatory animal, dropping to his knees beside his brother, checking his airway while dialing an emergency number on his phone.

Through the chaos, Corbin’s head snapped up.