Chapter 7
"I am not going out there," Trent protested, pressing himself deeper into the velvet cushions of the sofa. "You've taken everything! What more do you want? To humiliate us in front of the entire city?"
"Yes," Nia answered simply, her tone devoid of any sympathy. "Your father built his reputation on the illusion of absolute control. The only way to permanently transfer that power to me without a street war is for your associates to see you hand it over willingly. A peaceful abdication."
"And if we refuse?" Victor spat from the armchair, his eyes red and glaring. "If we walk out there and tell the families the truth? That you bought my men and staged a coup?"
Nia didn't blink. She turned her head slightly toward Silas.
"If they refuse, Silas, you will execute Trent right here on this sofa," Nia ordered, as casually as if she were ordering a glass of champagne. "You will then take Victor to the basement, remove his fingers one by one, and bury him under the foundation of his own estate. I will tell the guests that the groom got cold feet and fled the country, and I will take the territory by force tomorrow morning."
Trent let out a strangled, high-pitched noise of absolute terror. He scrambled off the sofa, falling to his knees in his ruined white tuxedo.
"No! No, please!" Trent begged, looking up at Nia, the golf club he had meant to hit her with lying forgotten near his knees. "I'll do it! I'll walk you down the aisle! I'll do whatever you say, just don't let them kill me!"
"Pathetic," Victor hissed at his son, spitting on the floor. "You disgrace the family name."
"You don't have a family name anymore, Victor," Nia reminded him sharply. She looked down at Trent. "Stand up. Fix your jacket. If you sweat, if you shake, or if you look anything less than overjoyed to be marrying me, Silas will put a bullet in your spine before we reach the altar."
Trent scrambled to his feet, frantically smoothing the wrinkles from his white tuxedo jacket and straightening his black bowtie. His hands shook so violently he could barely manage the fabric.
"Victor," Nia commanded, her eyes shifting to the older man. "You will walk ahead of us. You will smile at your guests. And when the priest asks who gives this bride away, you will look the city's elite in the eyes and you will hand me the keys to your kingdom."
Victor stared at her, the heavy pocket watch chain on his chest rising and falling with his ragged breaths. He looked at the cold, professional killers filling the hallway, and then at his trembling, broken son. He had no moves left on the board.
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"You are a demon," Victor whispered, slowly standing up from the armchair.
"I am a Moretti," Nia corrected him, her voice echoing with the pride of a lethal bloodline. She stepped toward the doorway, the magnificent train of her ivory lace mermaid gown gliding seamlessly across the floor. "Silas, clear the corridor. It is time for a wedding."
