Chapter 2
Valeria did not run. At fifty, the reigning sovereign of the DeLuca syndicate moved with the slow, terrifying gravity of an executioner who had never once needed to raise her voice to command an army. Her tailored charcoal suit was cut with razor-sharp precision, accentuating a lean, imposing frame. On her right index finger, the heavy gold family signet ring gleamed under the sun. Her dark hair was swept back into an immaculate twist, her fair, rosy cheeks unlined by fear.
Her cold eyes tracked across the lawn, taking in the overturned wheelchair, her father lying in the dirt, and the grinning circle of relatives holding up flutes of champagne.
In three unhurried strides, she reached Arthur’s side. She knelt, her silk trousers pressing into the damp grass, and slid an arm beneath her father’s frail shoulders.
"Easy, Father," Valeria murmured. Her voice was remarkably low, smooth, and measured, carrying a terrifying stillness. "Breathe. I have you."
"I am fine, Valeria," Arthur whispered through clenched teeth, his pride burning behind his pale eyes. "Do not let them see me shake."
"They won't see anything they can use," she said softly.
She signaled with two fingers. Two towering house bodyguards stepped forward instantly, their faces pale as sheets, and carefully lifted the patriarch by his elbows, carrying him to a wide, padded garden bench beneath the shade of an elm.
Only ten paces away stood Luca DeLuca. At twenty-nine, Valeria’s only son looked striking in his midnight-blue dinner suit, his champagne glass resting loosely between his fingers. He had not stepped forward. He had not reached out a hand. He had watched his grandfather strike the earth with cold, calculating detachment.
Valeria stood to her full height. She adjusted her suit cuffs, smoothing the wool, before her gaze drifted back toward the lawn.
Thirty guests stood watching her. Several junior capos still held their phones aloft, their grins faltering only slightly beneath her shadow.
Valeria’s eyes narrowed into slits of polished slate.
"Who laughed when he fell?" she asked.
The question was spoken so quietly that the breeze through the hedges nearly swallowed it, yet it hit the garden like a blast wave.
For two seconds, nobody breathed. Then, emboldened by the Rourkes' brazen display and Luca's absolute silence, Declan let out a sharp bark of laughter. Near the champagne table, four second cousins and a loan shark from Brooklyn smiled openly, raising their crystal flutes in an arrogant toast.
"We did, Valeria," one of the younger capos called out with a reckless grin. "It was funny. The old man took a tumble. Don't make a federal case out of a breeze knocking over an antique."
"A breeze," Valeria repeated, her voice eerily calm. She studied each raised glass, her gaze memorizing every wrist, every smile, every face bathed in the afternoon sun. "I see."
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Declan took three deliberate strides toward her, his hands emerging from his pockets. He closed the distance until his chest was less than a foot from her shoulder.
"You're losing your grip, Valeria," Declan said, his American accent heavy with mocking entitlement. He reached out and drove a stiff, insolent shove directly into her left shoulder. "He’s finished. Your son knows it. You're the only one left pretending this relic still holds the keys."
