Alessandro’s body convulsed once, a violent, desperate spasm that shook the plates on the table.

Then he went entirely limp.

His head rolled to the side, his lifeless eyes staring directly at me, his chin smeared with dark fluid.

“He’s gone,” Matteo whispered, his voice hollow.

The room froze.

“She did it,” Gianni said, his voice deadly quiet, the black barrel of his automatic pistol aimed right between my eyes.

“I didn’t touch it,” I said, my voice shaking as I backed away from my chair. “I didn’t do anything.”

“The American girl,” Gianni said, looking around the room at the other capos. “She was forced into this. She wanted her father’s freedom, and she took the old man’s life.”

The servant who had poured the wine was pinned against the oak paneling by two of Gianni’s guards, his face pale with terror.

“Speak,” Gianni commanded the servant. “Who gave you the powder?”

The servant looked at me, his face twisting into a mask of feigned panic.

“The girl,” the servant sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at my white lace dress. “The bride. She gave it to me in the hallway before the dinner.”