Chapter 9
The revelations poured out of them in a torrential, hysterical flood. As the minutes ticked closer to midnight, Celeste and Marcus traded agonizing secrets, exposing bribed politicians, compromised safe houses, and treacherous capos. They weaponized every piece of stolen intimacy to destroy each other, hoping that Dante would find enough value in their treason to spare their miserable lives.
Dante absorbed the information with the cold, calculating intellect of a veteran warlord. The emotional betrayal had already been processed and buried under layers of homicidal rage; now, he was simply gathering the intelligence necessary to purge the rot from his syndicate.
"She paid the head of security to turn off the cameras in the west wing!" Marcus wheezed, clutching his chest. "That's how I got in! You have to execute him, Dante! He's compromised!"
"He brought the untraceable phones!" Celeste screamed back, her perfect hair a ruined, tangled mess around her face. "He said the Chicago outfit provided them! He was selling our shipping routes to Chicago for their backing!"
Dante’s sharply defined jawline clenched. The involvement of the Chicago syndicate elevated this from a domestic betrayal to a full-scale declaration of war. He slowly uncrossed his legs, placing his polished leather shoes flat on the floor.
"Enough," Dante commanded.
The single word cut through their screaming match like a guillotine blade. The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.
Dante looked at his wristwatch. "It is five minutes to midnight."
He gestured with his tattooed hand toward the matte-black pistol resting on the center of the table.
"The information you provided... is sufficient," Dante murmured, his deep, raspy voice echoing off the high ceilings. "But the ultimatum... remains. Only one of you sees tomorrow."
"Dante, please, I gave you everything!" Celeste sobbed, reaching her trembling hand out toward the gun.
"Then prove... that you want to live," Dante whispered, leaning forward, his intimidating eyes burning with an apocalyptic fire.
Celeste swallowed hard. The terror in her eyes was entirely replaced by the cold, ruthless survival instinct that had drawn her to the Mafia in the first place. She lunged forward, stretching her arm across the wide mahogany table, her manicured fingers brushing the cold metal of the pistol grip.
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Marcus, fueled by a sudden, desperate surge of adrenaline, lunged at the exact same moment. He threw his entire upper body across the table, ignoring the agonizing scream of his broken ribs, his large hand slamming down over Celeste's wrist.
The two lovers grappled violently over the weapon, grunting and cursing, tearing at each other's flesh under the bright, cinematic lights of the grand dining hall, while the king watched from his throne.
