Chapter 8 - The Grand Gala Ambush
The Grand Ballroom of the East Harbor Regency was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and tuxedo-clad elites mingling under the watchful eye of local politicians and federal judges. String music drifted down from the balcony, blending with the low murmur of wealthy chatter.
When Dante Russo stepped through the double doors with me on his arm, the entire room went dead silent.
It was the exact same phenomenon I had witnessed at La Stella—only magnified a hundred times over. Conversations died instantly. Champagne flutes froze halfway to lips. Heads turned in unison, a mixture of terror, shock, and subservience washing over the city's upper crust. Dante walked with absolute authority, his dark eyes sweeping the room, while I matched his pace, my head held high, channeling every ounce of courage I possessed.
Across the room, standing near the champagne fountain with a glass in hand, was Marcus Vance. The silver-haired lawyer froze, his face draining of all color as he locked eyes with Dante. For a second, panic flickered across Marcus’s features before he hastily smoothed his expression into a polite, diplomatic smile and walked toward us.
“Dante! I wasn't aware you’d be attending tonight,” Marcus said smoothly, extending a hand that trembled ever so slightly. “And... oh, my. Who is this stunning companion?”
Dante did not take his hand. Instead, he stopped just inches away, his voice dripping with icy amusement. “Marcus. You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost, Boss—just an unexpected surprise,” Marcus stammered, his eyes darting toward the security guards stationed near the exits.
“Let’s clear the air, Marcus,” Dante said, stepping closer. “Or rather, let’s clear the room.” With a subtle flick of Dante’s wrist, Vincenzo and three syndicate enforcers stepped in, gently but firmly guiding the surrounding guests toward the outer corridors until only a handful of terrified politicians and federal officials remained trapped near the bar.
“What is the meaning of this?” an aging federal judge sputtered, stepping forward with an indignant flush on his cheeks. “Russo, you cannot simply clear a public—"
“Shut your mouth, Judge Miller, unless you want your offshore bank accounts in the Caymans broadcasted to every news outlet in the country by midnight,” Dante interrupted without even looking at him.
Dante turned his full, terrifying attention back to Marcus Vance. “You thought you could hire corrupt federal agents to assassinate me? You thought you could use a low-level restaurant worker as collateral damage?”
Marcus backed up until his spine hit the marble pillar behind him. “You... you can't prove anything. The feds protect—"
“The feds protect people who are useful, Marcus. You are no longer useful,” a cold, aristocratic voice echoed from behind us.
Lucia Russo stepped out of the shadows, flanked by two armed guards holding a secure tablet. She pressed a button on the screen, and instantly, a booming audio recording began playing through the ballroom’s integrated sound system. It was Marcus’s voice, clear as day, coordinating the hit with the rogue federal agents and transferring syndicate funds to an offshore account.
May you like
The color vanished entirely from Marcus’s face. He fell to his knees on the marble floor, gasping for air as the political elite around him stepped back in absolute disgust and terror.
“It’s over, Marcus,” Dante said softly, looking down at him. “Take him away.”
