Chapter 2
On the far side of the ballroom, forty-nine-year-old Galen Moretti stood near a towering column, deep in conversation with two of his most trusted capos. Galen was a man of terrifying, deeply masculine power. He possessed the rugged, intimidating features of a veteran Mafia boss, yet he was as handsome as a classic movie star. His thick, slightly wavy dark hair was naturally slicked back, though a few loose strands fell over his forehead, lending him a deceptive, romantic charm. His angular face, high-bridged nose, and sharply defined jawline were shadowed by an extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble.
He wore a flawlessly tailored dark three-piece suit, a crisp white dress shirt, and polished leather shoes. The heavy gold of his family signet ring and the sleek face of his luxury wristwatch caught the cinematic sunlight as he gestured.
"The South Side ports are locked down, Boss," one capo said, his American accent low and respectful. "The Vale family expects us to hand over the transit manifests by tomorrow morning."
Galen was about to reply when the sharp, desperate sound of a child’s cry severed the ambient noise of the room.
He stopped mid-sentence. His cold, sharp, intimidating eyes snapped across the ballroom. He saw Ainsley standing triumphantly in her rehearsal gown, holding the gold chain. And he saw his daughter, Eira, kneeling on the floor, clutching the torn fabric of her dress.
The casual, elegant demeanor of the Mafia Don vanished in a microsecond.
"Boss?" the capo asked, stepping back nervously as the temperature around Galen seemed to plummet to absolute zero.
Galen did not answer. He immediately turned and crossed the ballroom. His polished leather shoes struck the hardwood floor with a heavy, deliberate rhythm that parted the terrified wedding staff like the Red Sea. He radiated an aura of pure, unadulterated violence.
He reached the center of the room before Ainsley even realized he was moving. Galen did not shout. He did not lose his temper. He moved with the terrifying, practiced efficiency of a man who had spent three decades destroying his enemies.
He reached down, his large, masculine hands gently but firmly wrapping around Eira's small arms. He lifted her off the floor and smoothly pulled her safely behind his broad, tailored frame, shielding her entirely from his fiancée.
Eira gripped the torn fabric of her dress tightly against her chest, her rosy face wet with tears.
"Daddy…" Eira cried, burying her face into the back of his suit jacket. Her small voice shook violently between ragged sobs. "Daddy... She's getting rid of Mommy's things."
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Galen’s jaw clenched so tightly the muscles leaped beneath his fair skin. He extended his right hand toward Ainsley, his palm open. He did not say a word. The demand was absolute.
Ainsley’s confident smirk faltered under his dead, terrifying stare. Hesitantly, she dropped the broken gold locket into his waiting palm.
