Chapter 1
The private Mafia estate wedding ballroom in Chicago was bathed in brilliant, cinematic light. There was no hazy, yellow tint to the afternoon; the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows allowed pure, stark sunlight to flood the room, illuminating the bright, vivid colors of the lavish decorations. White and silver floral arch pieces stood half-assembled, while a string-quartet setup waited silently on the polished hardwood floor. The room buzzed with the low, sophisticated hum of white American adults—wedding staff arranging decorative boxes, and heavily armed bodyguards lingering near the perimeter.
At the center of it all stood Ainsley Vale. At thirty-six years old, she was a striking woman with fair, rosy skin and an air of aristocratic entitlement. She wore a luxurious bridal rehearsal gown that swept across the floor, accessorized with heavy diamond earrings, a matching bracelet, and towering heels. But her beautiful face was twisted into a mask of pure, unwarranted malice. In her right hand, she gripped a pair of heavy, steel tailoring shears.
Standing before her was four-year-old Eira Moretti, the flower girl and daughter of the groom. Eira wore an elegant, pale-pink flower-girl dress, her tiny feet clad in pristine white flats. Resting against her chest was a delicate gold locket, a precious keepsake that had belonged to her late mother.
"Hold still, you little brat," Ainsley hissed, her American accent sharp and dripping with venom.
"It's too tight," Eira whimpered, her rosy cheeks flushing as she tried to pull away. "You're hurting me."
"I said, hold still!" Ainsley snapped. She grabbed the back of Eira’s dress with a violent jerk. With a swift, aggressive motion, Ainsley forced the cold steel tailoring shears through the thick, decorative sash at the waist. The fabric tore with a loud, sickening rip and dropped to the polished ballroom floor in a useless heap.
Eira gasped, tears immediately welling in her bright blue eyes. "My dress! Daddy said it was perfect!"
"Your father doesn't know anything about fashion, and he certainly doesn't know how to raise a disciplined child," Ainsley sneered, leaning down so her face was inches from the terrified four-year-old. Her eyes darted to the gold chain around Eira's neck.
Without a shred of hesitation, Ainsley reached out and violently yanked the locket from Eira's neck. The delicate gold chain snapped against the little girl's fair skin, leaving a faint red mark.
"No! Give it back!" Eira cried, reaching out with her small hands. "That's Mommy's!"
Ainsley held the locket up, inspecting it with an expression of absolute disgust before closing her fist around it. She glared down at the weeping child, her voice devoid of any warmth or mercy.
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"Dead women don’t belong in my wedding," Ainsley said coldly.
Eira crumpled to her knees, sobbing openly into her small hands, the sound echoing sharply across the vast, brightly lit ballroom. The nearby wedding staff froze, their eyes wide, but no one dared to intervene against the future bride of the syndicate.
