Chapter 6 - The Storm of Drawn Weapons
The silence that followed Luca’s declaration lasted for only two terrifying heartbeats.
Then the entire grand ballroom erupted into absolute pandemonium.
Chairs scraped violently against the marble floor as dozens of powerful syndicate heads rose to their feet.
Angry shouts in Russian, Italian, and coarse English collided beneath the shaking crystal chandeliers.
“Is this an insult to the Vulov bloodline?” Grigori Vulov bellowed, his heavy hand slamming onto table two.
His enforcers reached beneath their tailored jackets, their fingers wrapping tightly around the checkered grips of automatic pistols.
Across the hall, the Don of Chicago drew a silver-plated revolver, his face flushed with purple indignation.
“You summoned our daughters from across the continent to mock us with a common kitchen girl?”
Over one hundred heiresses stood frozen in utter humiliation, clutching their diamond necklaces in disbelief.
Katarina Vulov’s porcelain face contorted into an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred.
Her cold eyes locked onto Luna, burning with a lethal promise of slow, agonizing vengeance.
Luna’s mind went entirely blank, every instinct screaming at her to drop to the floor and hide.
The terrifying reality of what Luca had just done threatened to crush her chest.
He had not merely rejected an alliance; he had publicly spat upon the pride of every major criminal family in America.
Luca did not flinch, nor did he let go of Luna’s trembling, bandaged hand.
His grip was warm, solid, and utterly unyielding as he pulled her slightly behind his broad frame.
With his free hand, Luca smoothly withdrew a matte-black firearm from his waistband and cocked the hammer.
The sharp metallic click cut through the cacophony with terrifying clarity.
“Anyone who raises a weapon under this roof will leave this house in a body bag,” Luca said, his voice deadly calm.
At the top of the grand marble staircase, Don Salvatore Moretti did not look surprised in the slightest.
The dying patriarch slowly raised his heavy ivory cane and struck the marble floor three times.
The thunderous thuds echoed through the vaulted room, silencing the screaming mobsters through sheer ancestral authority.
From the upper balconies, thirty heavily armed Moretti snipers emerged, their red laser sights painting the chests of the rebellious bosses.
Dozens of red dots danced across Grigori Vulov’s silk lapel and over Dmitri Kosoff’s pale forehead.
“Put your toys away, gentlemen,” Don Salvatore commanded, his raspy voice carrying absolute finality.
“The tradition stated my son must choose a bride before midnight from among the women within these walls.”
“He was never bound to your blood, your shipping ports, or your hollow dowries.”
“Luna Reyes has served this family with unblemished loyalty, and she bears the blessing of the founding Don.”
Grigori Vulov spat onto the pristine floor, his eyes blazing with venomous rage.
“You have signed your own death warrant, Salvatore,” the Russian warlord hissed, signaling his men to stand down.
“Your heart is rotting in your chest, and your boy has chosen a helpless sparrow to rule over wolves.”
“The ports are closed to the Morettis starting tonight.”
“When the snow falls on Manhattan, we will burn your empire to the ground and hang your little maid from your gate.”
Grigori grabbed Katarina by the wrist and stormed toward the double exit doors, flanked by his private army.
Dmitri Kosoff lingered for a fraction of a second, his cold blue eyes boring into Luna’s petrified soul.
He dragged a slow finger across his throat, mouthed a silent promise of death, and turned on his heel.
One by one, the insulted families gathered their coats and their furious daughters, leaving the ballroom in deafening silence.
Within ten minutes, the grand hall of one hundred families was reduced to scattered champagne flutes and overturned chairs.
Only the Moretti household guards and the petrified domestic staff remained in the cavernous space.
Luna’s knees gave out, and she began to collapse toward the cold marble floor.
Before she could hit the ground, two powerful arms scooped her up, lifting her effortlessly against a solid chest.
Luca held her tightly, his heart beating with a rapid, wild rhythm beneath his tuxedo jacket.
“Breathe, Luna,” he murmured, his face buried against the crook of her neck.
“You are safe now, mi paloma.”
“No, Luca,” she gasped, hot tears finally spilling down her cheeks.
“You have just started a war for a maid.”
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Luca looked down into her tear-streaked face, his green eyes burning with a fierce, unbreakable devotion.
“Then let the entire world burn,” he whispered, carrying her away from the ruins of the ballroom.
