Chapter 1
The donor lounge of the Lombardi-owned marine museum was bathed in a brilliant, cinematic light. There was no dull, yellow tint to the atmosphere; instead, the pristine aquarium viewing walls cast a crisp, vivid blue glow that illuminated the room with breathtaking clarity. Schools of silver and neon fish darted behind the thick glass, providing a tranquil backdrop to the lethal political theater unfolding within the private space. The guests, all white American adults with fair, rosy complexions, mingled in their expensive black-tie attire. Their sharp American accents formed a sophisticated hum of cocktail chatter, entirely masking the violent undercurrents of the Lombardi crime family.
At the center of the room stood Cesare Lombardi. At sixty-one years old, he possessed a deeply masculine, movie-star handsomeness that commanded the very oxygen in the lounge. His thick, neatly styled hair and short, well-groomed full beard framed an angular face with a sharply defined jawline. He wore a dark, tailored suit, but the dress shirt beneath it was unbuttoned at the chest, a subtle rebellion against the strict formality of the gala that only enhanced his dangerous, elegant aura.
"The conservation fund has surpassed our expectations this quarter, Father," Julian Lombardi said, adjusting the cuffs of his expensive tailored tuxedo. "The mayor is very pleased with the optics of this event."
Cesare slowly turned his cold, sharp eyes toward his thirty-six-year-old son. He spoke slowly, with controlled pauses between his words. His volume remained unnervingly low.
"We are not here. To please politicians. Julian," Cesare said, every syllable measured and dangerous. "We are here. To remind them. Who owns the water."
Beside Julian stood Vanessa Cole, heavily pregnant beneath an elegant maternity-style evening gown. Her diamond earrings and bracelets flashed in the bright light as she rested a delicate hand on her swollen belly. "It is a beautiful event, Cesare. Our family will benefit greatly from this shift in public perception. It softens our edges."
"Indeed," Diane Lombardi added, stepping forward. Cesare’s sixty-four-year-old older sister adjusted her heavy pearl necklace, her eyes scanning the room with aristocratic disdain. She wore an elegant gala gown that swept across the carpet. "It proves we are more than what the federal prosecutors claim we are."
From the corridor, three-year-old Avice navigated the crowded lounge. She wore an elegant charity-gala dress, a soft cardigan, and white tights. In her small hands, she clutched a handmade paper card, her fair, rosy cheeks flushed with pure excitement as she hurried toward her grandfather.
"Grandpa!" Avice called out, her sweet voice breaking through the heavy tension. "I made this for you!"
"Ah, my little principessa," Cesare murmured, a rare warmth briefly softening his intimidating eyes.
Avice reached the table and moved to sit in the plush chair directly beside Cesare. Before the little girl could even climb onto the cushion, Diane’s hand shot out. With vicious, unprovoked force, Diane violently yanked the chair backward.
May you like
Avice lost her balance completely. The little girl tumbled backward, crashing hard onto the carpet. Her handmade card flew from her fingers, sliding beneath the long banquet table.
Diane stood over the fallen child, her rosy face twisting into a cruel smirk. "That seat is for family," Diane sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "Not begging."
