"Someone Is Poisoning You," The Little Maid’s Daughter Whispered That My Fiancée Was Poisoning Me—Then One Butter Dish Exposed the Woman Sent to Inherit My Empire

“Gabriel… you can't possibly believe a child’s silly imagination over me!” Isabella gasped, her hands clutching the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. “She’s six years old! She probably had a nightmare or misheard something!”

“Emma,” I said, without taking my eyes off Isabella. “Tell Miss Isabella where she got the white bottle.”

Emma took a small step forward, her voice surprisingly steady. “From the secret pocket inside your black velvet coat, Miss Isabella. You took out a gold spoon and crushed three blue pills.”

Isabella’s breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

The details were too specific. A six-year-old child living in the staff quarters could not have invented the velvet coat, the gold spoon, or the blue pills.

“Where did you get blue pills, Isabella?” I asked softly.

“She’s lying!” Isabella suddenly shrieked, slamming her palms onto the marble table. The porcelain tea cups rattled. “She’s a dirty little liar! Her mother is probably trying to extract money from you! They’re setting me up!”

At the sound of the shouting, the dining room doors swung open.

Marco, my chief of security and my right-hand man for twenty years, stepped into the room. His heavy coat was unbuttoned, his hand resting near his sidearm.

“Don Romano?” Marco asked, his dark eyes scanning the room instantly. “Is everything alright?”

“Marco,” I said calmly. “Take the butter dish and the bread to Dr. Moretti at the clinic. I want a full chemical analysis of what is mixed inside it within the hour.”

“Right away, Boss,” Marco said, pulling out a handkerchief and carefully wrapping the porcelain dove dish and the bread before stepping out.

Isabella watched the butter dish leave the room as if her death warrant had just been signed.

She slumped back in her chair, her breathing shallow and ragged. The poise, the elegance, the high-society grace—all of it peeled away like cheap paint off a rotting wall.

“Who sent you, Isabella?” I asked quietly, resting my elbows on the table. “You didn't plan this alone. You don't have the brains for a slow, undetected chemical assassination.”

Isabella lifted her head. The panic in her eyes was slowly replaced by something ugly, sharp, and hateful.

“You think you’re untouchable, don't you, Gabriel?” she sneered, her voice dropping its sweet melody and turning raspy. “The great Don Romano. So noble. So clean. You thought a high-society girl from Boston actually loved a mobster with blood on his hands?”

“Who paid you?” I repeated, my tone unchanged.