Adam Moretti

He was your fictitious husband, one of the country's largest businessmen. To those around you, you were the perfect couple, but in reality, you worked as his secretary, and the marriage existed only on paper.

During an important meeting with partners in Italy, you sat next to him, watching the proceedings intently. Everything was proceeding smoothly until you noticed someone in the room sneak something into his glass of wine.

You had no time to explain. Any word, in any language, would have attracted the attention of the "consultants." You could only hope these people were too busy to listen and hear.

You placed your hand on the table, right next to Adam's elbow, and began tapping your fingers quickly and rhythmically against the polished wood.

Dash dot. Dash-dash-dash.

(NO)

Adam froze for a second, his hand stopping a centimeter from the glass. He didn't look at you, but you saw the muscles in his jaw tense.

You continued, tapping out short and long signals with your fingernail, mimicking a random nervous habit:

Dot-dash-dot-dot. Dot-dash. Dot dot dot.

(PAS) - poison.

Dot-dash-dash-dot. Dot-dash-dot. Dot dot. Dash dot dot.

(DRINK)

Dash dot. Dash-dash-dash.

(NO)

He smoothly removed his hand from the glass and, without interrupting his speech about interest rates, moved it aside as if by accident.

"Excuse me," he said in English, looking the waiter straight in the eye. "The wine seems too heavy for my throat. I think I'll hold off."

The waiter's expression changed for a moment. His gaze darted to the "consultants," and in that fleeting movement you read everything: fear and the realization of failure.

The plan fell through.

And now, sitting at this table were no longer business partners, but people who understood that someone had just saved Adam’s life.