Chapter 8 - The First Pour
The delivery men hoisted the heavy pine box onto the polished walnut table, the wood groaning slightly under its weight.
Dean stepped forward eagerly, pulling a polished silver pry bar from his pocket.
With practiced hands, he cracked the pine lid, revealing six velvet-lined compartments holding dark, amber-filled bottles.
Each bottle was capped with deep red sealing wax and bore a handwritten vintage label from Scotland.
Dean reached for the first bottle, lifting it into the light of the crystal chandelier like a holy relic.
"Pure perfection," Dean declared, his voice booming with forced confidence.
"Ninety proof, aged in Spanish oak for fifty years."
He placed the bottle directly in front of Adrian, alongside a silver corkscrew and two heavy crystal tumblers.
"Sal and I thought you should have the honor of the first glass, boss."
Adrian didn't reach for the bottle.
He sat perfectly still, his hands resting flat on the mahogany armrests of his chair.
Behind him, my heart was hammering so hard against my ribs I was terrified the council members would hear it.
This was the exact bottle Dean had described in the conservatory.
The wax seal looked flawless to the untrained eye, but as the light caught the top rim, I noticed a microscopic puncture in the crimson wax, no larger than a needle point, sealed over with fresh paraffin.
Sal smiled warmly, raising his empty glass toward Adrian.
"Come on, boy. Don't be formal with your own blood."
"Pour a round for the council."
Adrian slowly leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his fingers together.
His gray eyes fixed entirely on Dean.
"You went to a lot of trouble for this bottle, didn't you, Dean?"
Dean laughed, though the sound was slightly hollow.
"Nothing is too good for the family, Adrian."
"You worked the docks in Newark, paid off three separate port inspectors, and personally escorted the crate from the warehouse this morning?"
"Every single mile, boss," Dean said proudly.
"I didn't let that crate leave my sight for a second."
"Splendid," Adrian said softly.
Then, with agonizing slowness, Adrian picked up the heavy crystal tumbler in front of him.
Instead of setting it before his own plate, he slid it across the polished wood, stopping it directly in front of Dean.
"Then you should have the honor of tasting it first."
The silence that slammed into the dining hall was deafening.
The clinking of silverware stopped completely.
Dean froze, his hand still hovering over the bottle neck, the blood instantly draining from his face until his lips turned an ash-gray color.
Sal Russo’s smile faltered, his old eyes shifting from Adrian to his nephew with sudden, sharp suspicion.
"Adrian," Sal chuckled nervously, waving a hand.
"The boy is just a soldier."
"You don't waste vintage scotch like this on a lieutenant."
"He said he guarded it with his life, Sal," Adrian replied, his voice smooth as silk and cold as a tombstone.
"In my organization, loyalty is rewarded immediately."
Adrian picked up the silver corkscrew, inserted the spiral into the cork, and pulled it out with a crisp, hollow pop.
The rich, smoky aroma of aged malt whiskey filled the air, mingled with the faint, almost imperceptible sweetness of bitter almonds.
Adrian tipped the bottle, pouring three fingers of the dark amber liquid into Dean's glass.
The liquid swirled, catching the amber glow of the chandeliers.
"Drink it, Dean," Adrian commanded softly.
Dean stared down at the glass as if it were filled with molten lead.
A bead of cold sweat formed at his hairline, tracking slowly down his temple and dripping onto his navy lapel.
"Boss... it's nine in the morning," Dean stammered, his voice trembling so hard the words slurred.
"I have to drive out to the Queens yards in an hour."
"I shouldn't drink before a transport run."
"One drink won't hurt your driving, Dean," Adrian said, his gaze never leaving the man's eyes.
"Or perhaps you don't like the vintage?"
"No, it's... it's great scotch, boss."
"Then pick up the glass."
Dean didn't move.
His chest was heaving with rapid, shallow breaths.
The other five council members at the table had completely stopped eating, their expressions shifting from confusion to icy realization.
These were men who had survived four decades in the underworld; they knew the scent of a poisoned chalice when they saw one.
Sal Russo turned slowly in his chair, staring up at his nephew.
"Dean," the old man said, his gravelly voice dropping into a dangerous rasp.
"The boss offered you a drink."
"Take the glass."
Dean looked down at his uncle, his eyes wide with sheer, unadulterated terror.
"Uncle Sal, please..."
"I said pick up the glass, you idiot!" Sal snapped, slamming his palm against the table.
Dean’s hand shook so violently that when his fingers touched the crystal, it rattled loudly against the wood.
He lifted the glass three inches into the air.
His mouth was open, gasping for air like a fish thrown onto dry land.
He brought the rim of the glass to within an inch of his trembling lips.
The smell of the liquid hit his nose.
With a terrified, guttural scream, Dean violently hurled the glass away from his face.
May you like
The crystal shattered against the stone hearth across the room, spraying the amber liquid across the roaring fire.
The moment the liquid hit the open flames, the fire hissed loudly, flaring up in a bright, unnatural flash of violent turquoise and purple before dying down into thick, white smoke.
