Chapter 5
Laura stared at Vincent, the blood completely draining from her face. She reached out blindly, bracing her hand against the edge of the mahogany desk to keep her balance.
"A Valenti?" Laura choked out, her voice barely a whisper. "Emma is a Valenti?"
"She was," Vincent corrected, his tone ironclad and absolute. "Until I signed the adoption decree with my own blood. Now she is a Moretti. The only Moretti that matters."
David looked down at his three-year-old sister, who was happily wiping chocolate frosting onto a linen napkin, entirely oblivious to the fact that her bloodline was a landmine capable of detonating the entire American underworld.
"Grandpa," David said, his voice trembling slightly with realization. "Does Margaret know?"
"Margaret suspected," Vincent said, leaning his head back against the leather. "She’s been digging through the offshore adoption trusts in Zurich for six months. She thought tonight she could provoke me into making a scene, push Laura to retaliate, and then reveal Emma’s heritage to the five families assembled downstairs."
"If the Valenti syndicate finds out Marcus’s blood is alive..." Laura gasped, her hands trembling. "They’ll start a war. They’ll claim she belongs to Chicago, not New York."
"Let them claim whatever they want," Vincent said softly. "The moment anyone steps across that threshold to touch her, they die. It’s that simple."
A sharp knock echoed against the heavy oak door of the mezzanine suite.
"Enter," Vincent commanded without raising his voice.
The door swung inward, revealing Santino. The veteran capo’s face was grim, his knuckles scraped red, his dark trench coat slightly disheveled.
"Don Vincent," Santino said, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "We have a problem in the ballroom."
Vincent did not move. He gently lifted Emma from his lap and set her into the deep leather armchair, handing her a silver fork. "Stay here with your brother, Emma. Watch the cartoons on the screen."
"Okay, Grandpa," Emma chirped happily, swinging her little patent-leather shoes.
Vincent stood up, fastening the center button of his tailored suit jacket. He walked to the door, flanked by Laura.
"Speak, Santino," Vincent ordered as they stepped out onto the mezzanine landing.
"It’s Capo Leonard and three of the northern elders," Santino reported, pointing down toward the glittering banquet floor below. "They’re blocking the service elevators. They claim you violated family protocol by ordering Margaret into confinement without a formal council tribunal. Leonard is down there right now, rallying the table captains. He’s calling for a vote of no confidence."
Laura’s breath caught in her throat. "Leonard was Margaret’s late husband’s cousin. They’re making their move."
Vincent walked to the brass railing of the mezzanine, looking down at the three hundred guests below. Near the grand ice sculpture, a burly, red-faced man in his fifties—Capo Leonard—was slamming his fist against a table, surrounded by eight armed lieutenants.
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Vincent watched them with cold, calculated amusement. A faint, razor-thin smile touched the corner of his lips.
"They think because I love my granddaughter, I’ve gone soft," Vincent murmured, rolling the cuffs of his shirt back just enough to expose the dark tattoos on his wrists. "Let’s go remind them who pays their salaries."
