Chapter 9
The silence in the ballroom became absolute, shattered only by the sudden, collective intake of breath from three hundred guests. Victor’s words were a deliberate deviation from the traditional script, a coded message that every criminal in the room understood perfectly. He had just surrendered the throne.
Whispers erupted like a sudden storm. A man in the second row—a loyalist capo who had served Victor for twenty years—stood up, his face red with outrage.
"What is the meaning of this, Victor?" the loyalist yelled, reaching inside his jacket for a weapon that was no longer there, having been confiscated by Silas's men at the door. "You are handing the city over to a girl?"
Before the man could take another step toward the altar, two massive bodyguards in sharp navy blue suits materialized from the shadows. They grabbed the loyalist by his arms, lifting him entirely off the ground, and slammed him brutally onto one of the empty chairs, pinning him in place.
The brutal, instantaneous display of force silenced the whispers immediately.
Nia turned away from the priest, completely ignoring the traditional vows. She let go of Trent’s arm, stepping forward to the edge of the altar. She looked out over the sea of faces, powerful, elegant, and intimidating.
"My name is Nia Moretti," she announced, her voice ringing clear and authoritative through the massive ballroom. "And as Victor has so graciously acknowledged, the territory, the businesses, and the loyalties of this city now belong to the Chicago Commission."
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle over the stunned crowd.
"There will be no war today," Nia continued, pacing slowly across the altar in her satin stilettos. "The transition of power has already occurred. Your security teams work for me. Your bank accounts are currently being audited by my accountants. You have exactly one choice to make before you leave this room tonight. You can swear allegiance to the Commission, or you can join Victor in retirement."
"You can't do this!" a politician in the back yelled, panicked by the sudden shift in his illicit funding.
"It is already done," Nia replied, her eyes locking onto the politician with terrifying precision. "If any of you have a problem with my leadership, you are free to discuss it with Silas and his men in the alley out back. I assure you, it will be a very brief conversation."
Trent, standing uselessly by the floral archway, dropped to his knees. The sheer pressure of the room, the realization that his entire life was a lie, finally broke him completely.
"Please," Trent sobbed, burying his face in his hands, ruining his white tuxedo. "Just let us go. We'll leave the city. I swear."
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Nia turned her head, looking down at the man who had threatened her with a golf club less than an hour ago. She felt absolutely nothing for him. No pity. No anger. Only the cold, calculating logic of a syndicate boss.
"You aren't going anywhere, Trent," Nia said softly, though the microphone picked up every word. "A queen needs a king to maintain appearances for the federal agents outside. You are going to sign the marriage license. And then you are going to sit in a very quiet room until I have a use for you."
