Chapter 8
The entire ballroom erupted into an immediate, synchronized sound of steel clearing leather. Over fifty Moretti bodyguards drew their weapons in unison, aiming directly at the five men standing in the doorway.
Marco Valenti didn't flinch. He leaned casually on his silver-tipped cane, his thin lips curving into a mocking, predatory smirk.
"Put the guns away, boys," Marco said, his Chicago drawl thick and insolent. "If I wanted to shoot my way in here, I wouldn't have brought four men. I would have brought four hundred."
Vincent did not reach for a weapon. He stood tall in the center of the wreckage, his hands resting easily in his trouser pockets, his shirt still casually unbuttoned at the neck.
"You crossed state lines without an invitation, Marco," Vincent said, his voice flat, dangerously calm. "In our world, that’s an act of war."
"An act of war?" Marco chuckled darkly, stepping forward two paces onto the marble. "I came to collect what belongs to Chicago, Vincent. Three years ago, my brother’s bloodline vanished from a hospital in Zurich. You forged the birth certificates. You filed the papers under a sealed adoption registry. You thought if you hid her behind Laura’s skirts, I’d never trace the genetic markers."
Up on the mezzanine balcony, David stepped in front of the office door, his young hand hovering over the small revolver concealed in his waistline, keeping Emma safely locked inside behind the soundproof glass.
Laura stepped down to Vincent’s side, her eyes flashing with pure defiance. "Emma is my daughter, Valenti. You didn't give a damn about your brother when he was alive. You let him rot in that warehouse fire."
"My brother was a fool, Laura," Marco replied, his gaze locking onto her. "But his daughter carries the keys to the Valenti trust. Thirty million dollars in bearer bonds locked in a Swiss vault, accessible only by direct lineage. You didn't adopt a child out of charity, Vincent. You adopted a thirty-million-dollar lottery ticket."
Vincent took a slow, deliberate step toward the Chicago boss. The temperature in the room plummeted.
"I don't need your money, Marco," Vincent whispered, every word carved from stone. "I generate thirty million before lunch every Tuesday. I took Emma because she was an innocent child left to die by animals like you and Margaret."
"Hand her over, Vincent," Marco demanded, his smirk vanishing, replaced by cold, vicious entitlement. "Give me the girl, and the northern borders stay peaceful. Keep her, and I will burn every warehouse between Manhattan and Buffalo."
Vincent stopped five feet from Marco. He tilted his head slightly, a dark, lethal smile spreading across his stubbled jaw.
May you like
"Then bring your matches, Marco," Vincent said softly. "Because you aren't leaving this room with anything but a warning."
Before Marco could reply, the grand ballroom’s chandeliers suddenly flickered violently twice—and died.
