Chapter 5
The ringing silence in the grand ballroom was profound, broken only by the wet, rattling groans coming from Marcella as she lay bleeding among the shattered champagne flutes. The bright video colors of the room—the crisp white linens, the vibrant floral centerpieces—created a surreal, high-definition portrait of total devastation.
Nico stood immovably in front of his daughter. Vivia clung to the back of his tailored trousers, her small face buried against the fabric, terrified by the loud crash but finding absolute security behind her father.
Marcella pushed herself up onto her elbows, her luxurious wedding gown soaked in spilled alcohol and covered in glittering shards of glass. Her fair, rosy skin was pale, save for the massive, dark bruise expanding across her cheek.
"You struck me," Marcella wheezed, genuine, unadulterated terror finally shining in her eyes. "On my wedding day."
Nico didn't answer. He watched her with the chilling stillness of a predator waiting for its prey to bleed out.
As Marcella scrambled frantically on the floor, desperately trying to push herself away from the sharp glass, her flailing hand snagged on something. In the chaos of the fall, her manicured fingers had accidentally caught the hem of Vivia’s old, slightly tattered formal dress that had dragged across the floor.
Marcella jerked her hand back violently in a panic.
The sudden, forceful pull caught the fragile, aged fabric. With a sharp, distinct ripping sound, Marcella’s hand tore a loose inner seam of the old dress.
"My dress!" Vivia cried out, stepping out from behind Nico as the fabric tore.
As the hidden seam of the dress split open, gravity took hold of its secret payload. Dropping from the concealed pocket sewn deep within the lining of the garment, two small items fell onto the polished marble floor.
A small, plastic-wrapped black USB drive, and a tightly folded, handwritten note.
The items hit the stone with a soft, distinct clatter.
The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Nico freezes.
The deeply masculine, terrifying Mafia boss stopped completely. His cold, intimidating eyes dropped to the floor, locking onto the black plastic of the USB drive and the familiar, elegant handwriting bleeding through the folded paper.
He recognized that stationery. He recognized the meticulous folds. It was his late wife’s personal note paper.
There was no dialogue.
The cinematic, flawless daylight pouring through the massive windows seemed to focus entirely on the two small objects resting on the marble floor. The implications of what had just fallen from the dress—a dress his wife had desperately instructed her daughter to protect at all costs—were catastrophic.
May you like
Nico’s sharply defined jawline clenched so tightly that it looked as though the bone might shatter. The puzzle pieces of his wife's sudden, highly suspicious death two years ago were suddenly materializing in front of him. She hadn't just died. She had been silenced. And she had left her final testimony hidden in the one place she knew her daughter would fiercely protect.
Nico slowly raised his eyes from the floor and looked at his sister. The atmosphere in the room plummeted to absolute zero. The wedding was officially over. The tribunal had begun.
