Chapter 8 - The Price of Loyalty
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered like a diamond under the radiance of seven crystal chandeliers. Champagne flutes clinked, string quartets played Vivaldi, and men worth billions laughed alongside corrupt district attorneys.
Then the double doors swung open.
The laughter died. The string quartet missed a beat.
Vincent Caruso strode into the hall. He wore a midnight-blue velvet tuxedo, his broad frame radiating an aura of lethal supremacy. On his arm, walking with absolute grace, was Claire Bennett.
She wore a backless black silk gown that clung to her curves like a second skin, its high halter neckline strategically concealing the surgical dressing over her right clavicle. Her hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, exposing the delicate, porcelain curve of her neck. She looked like a dark queen descending upon her subjects.
Across the crowded room, standing near a circle of private guards, stood Salvatore Moretti. The seventy-year-old mafia don stiffened, his glass of vintage cognac trembling in his hand.
"He looks like he's seen a ghost," Claire whispered, smiling faintly as they navigated the parted crowd.
"He's looking at his executioner," Vincent murmured, his hand resting firmly on the small of her back, his touch sending waves of warmth through her spine.
"Caruso," a booming voice called out. Salvatore Moretti forced a grotesque smile onto his leathery face, stepping forward as his four bodyguards flanked him like stone pillars. "We were worried you wouldn't make it. Rumor had it your administrative staff had suffered some... unexpected health complications."
Claire took half a step forward, extending her left hand with icy perfection. "Just a minor scratch, Mr. Moretti. But thank you for your concern. It gave me ample time to review the shipping manifests for the Hudson dry docks."
Moretti’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Did it now?"
"Indeed," Claire said smoothly, nodding toward a silver-haired man standing twenty feet away—Federal Port Commissioner Harrison. "In fact, I was just explaining to Commissioner Harrison how three of your unmanifested shipping containers from Palermo were rerouted to a Caruso-owned quarantine facility two hours ago. The DEA is currently inspecting thirty tons of pure synthetic opioids. Your signature is on the customs waiver, Salvatore."
Moretti’s face turned the color of ash. "You insolent little tramp—"
In less than half a second, the world exploded into violence.
One of Moretti’s bodyguards reached inside his tuxedo for a suppressed automatic.
He never cleared leather.
Vincent moved with the speed of a striking cobra. His left hand slammed into the guard's throat, crushing his windpipe, while his right hand pulled a concealed ceramic blade from his sleeve, driving it through the wrist of the second guard.
Screams erupted throughout the ballroom. Women dropped their champagne flutes; high-society guests stampeded toward the exits.
"Dominic! Now!" Vincent roared.
The grand lights of the ballroom abruptly went completely black.
Emergency sirens wailed in the distance. In the darkness, the sharp, rhythmic cracks of suppressed gunfire echoed like thunderclaps. Vincent did not pursue Moretti; his entire world narrowed down to a single objective.
He threw his massive body over Claire, shielding her with his back as bullets splintered the ornate marble pillars around them.
"I have you!" he shouted over the deafening chaos, slamming her behind an overturned oak bar. "Claire! Look at me!"
"I'm fine!" she shouted back, her fingers clutching his lapels. "Vincent, Moretti is heading for the service elevator!"
"I don't give a damn about Moretti!" Vincent growled, his eyes blazing in the strobe of emergency red lights. His hands frantically checked her torso, her shoulder, her arms. "Did they hit you? Did anyone touch you?!"
"No! Vincent, look at me! I am untouched!"
He froze, his breathing ragged, his forehead pressing against hers in the darkness behind the bar. The smell of gunsmoke and bergamot mingled in the air.
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"If I lose you," Vincent choked out, his voice raw, stripped of all pride, all power, all mafia arrogance, "there is no empire. There is no city. There is only dust."
***
