Chapter 5
Nia stared at the old man for a long, agonizing moment. The sheer arrogance of his threat hung in the bright, sunlit air of the bridal suite, pathetic and hollow. A slow, chilling smile finally touched the corners of Nia’s painted lips—a smile devoid of joy, full of absolute, terrifying finality.
"You think I am marrying into your family?" Nia asked, her voice dangerously soft.
She opened her manicured hand. The heavy metal golf club slipped from her fingers and crashed onto the hardwood floor, coming to rest exactly at Trent’s polished patent leather shoes. The loud clatter made both men flinch.
"That is exactly what you are doing," Victor barked, though a tiny sliver of unease finally began to prick at the back of his mind. He glanced nervously at the door, realizing he had left it wide open.
"No, Victor," Nia said, her voice dropping into a quiet, lethal register that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. "Your son was marrying into mine."
Victor’s brow furrowed in confusion. Before he could speak, the atmosphere in the hallway outside the bridal suite shifted drastically. The polite, distant murmurs of the wedding coordinators vanished.
Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed on the marble floors of the corridor.
Suddenly, the doorway of the suite was entirely blocked. The hallway was filled with men. They were white American adult men, built like industrial tanks, all wearing impeccably sharp navy blue suits. They were Mafia capos, enforcers, and elite bodyguards, and they were not on Victor’s payroll. They moved with a silent, terrifying discipline, their eyes locked entirely on Nia, waiting for a single command.
Victor froze. The blood completely drained from his face, leaving his rosy skin a ghastly, pale white. The heavy pocket watch chain on his silver vest clinked softly as his chest heaved in sudden, paralyzing panic. He looked at the army of men in the hallway, then back to the beautiful, twenty-five-year-old woman in the ivory wedding gown.
The realization hit him with the force of a freight train. He hadn't brought a naive civilian into his empire to secure a beneficial public alliance. He had invited a Trojan horse into his sanctuary.
"Who... who are you?" Victor stammered, the authoritative boom in his voice entirely destroyed.
"I am the new head of the Chicago Commission," Nia stated, taking a slow step forward, her satin stilettos clicking against the hardwood like the ticking of a bomb. "And as of this exact moment, I am the owner of everything you thought was yours."
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Two of the massive bodyguards in navy blue suits stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the bridal suite. They didn't pull weapons; they didn't need to. Their sheer physical presence cut off any hope of escape. They stood silently on either side of Nia, crossing their arms, their loyalty absolute.
Trent whimpered from the sofa, finally realizing that the wedding wasn't a celebration. It was a hostile takeover.
