Chapter 5 - The Crimson Banquet
The Pier 31 restaurant was closed to the public, its grand glass windows overlooking the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan. Outside, forty armed soldiers from both families patrolled the perimeter, their breath frosting in the freezing night air. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of roasted meat, expensive red wine, and the unmistakable, suffocating tension of an impending execution.
Lena stood in the foyer, her breath catching as she caught her reflection in the gilded mirror. The dress Marco had ordered for her was a masterpiece of deep crimson silk—long-sleeved to cover the bandages on her shoulder, with a high collar that framed her neck and a silhouette that made her look like royalty rather than a girl from the South Side. Her hair was swept up in an elegant twist, held in place by a diamond comb that had belonged to Marco’s mother.
"You look beautiful, Lena," Marco said, stepping up behind her. He was dressed in a pristine black tuxedo, his presence so commanding that even the seasoned guards in the hallway looked down as he passed. He reached out, offering his arm. "Remember. Do not speak unless I speak to you. Do not look at their eyes. Look at their hands. In our world, a man’s eyes can lie, but his fingers will always tell you if he is about to draw."
Lena slipped her arm through his, her fingers tightening against the hard muscle of his forearm. "I’m terrified, Marco."
"Good," he whispered, his lips brushing near her ear. "Fear keeps you sharp. But remember who you are standing next to. You are with the DeSantis house tonight. Act like the castle belongs to you."
They walked into the private dining room. A massive oval table stood in the center, laden with silver platters and crystal decanters. Sitting at the far end was Emilio Moretti—an older man with a pockmarked face, greasy silver hair, and teeth that looked like yellowed bone. Surrounding him were six of his top captains, all of them wearing heavy gold rings and expressions of cold, calculating hostility.
The moment Marco and Lena entered, every man at the table stood up. The silence was absolute, broken only by the low hum of the wind rattling the glass windows against the lake.
"Marco," Emilio Moretti said, his voice like grinding stones as he extended a hand. "The lion of Chicago leaves his den. And you bring the brave little bird who flew into the gunfire."
Marco did not take Emilio’s hand. He simply walked to his seat at the head of the table, pulling out the chair for Lena before sitting down himself. His captains filed in behind him, their hands resting loosely near their sides.
"Save the theater, Emilio," Marco said, pouring himself a glass of water, ignoring the vintage wine. "You sent three shooters into a café owned by my family. You targeted my daughter. If you want a truce, I want the names of the men who authorized the hit, and I want the northern territory docks turned over to my control by sunrise."
Emilio’s smile vanished, his pockmarked face turning an ugly shade of purple. He looked over at Lena, his eyes scanning the red silk of her dress before locking onto the diamond comb in her hair. "You demand much, Marco. Especially for a man who has replaced his late wife with a common girl from the streets. Is this the new queen of the DeSantis family? A girl who wipes tables for a living?"
One of Marco’s captains moved forward, his hand slipping inside his jacket, but Marco raised a single finger, stopping the man instantly.
Marco leaned across the table, his green eyes turning into two pieces of frozen jade. "The woman sitting next to me has more courage in her little finger than your entire council has in their collective veins, Emilio. She took iron for my daughter while your men ran like rats into the alley. If you insult her again at this table, I will not ask for the northern docks. I will take your head and throw it into the lake before the main course is served."
The air in the room turned to ice. Lena kept her eyes fixed on Emilio’s hands, just as Marco had told her. She saw the old man’s knuckles whiten against the edge of the mahogany table. She saw the subtle shift of the body language of the captains behind him.
For ten agonizing seconds, the balance of power in the city hung by a single, fraying thread.
Then, Emilio let out a forced, rattling laugh, shaking his head. "Always so dramatic, Marco. Always the warrior. Very well. The northern docks are yours. And the rogue captains who ordered the café hit... their bodies will be delivered to your warehouse by noon tomorrow. Let us drink to the peace."
He raised his glass. Marco did not raise his. He simply stood up, pulling Lena’s chair back with him.
"The dinner is concluded, Emilio," Marco said coldly. "We do not break bread with men who target children. Enjoy your wine. It is the last pleasant thing you will taste in this city for a long time."
As they walked out of the restaurant into the cold night air, Lena’s knees finally gave out. She stumbled slightly on the gravel, but Marco’s arm was there instantly, catching her waist and lifting her effortlessly against his side.
"You did perfectly, Lena," he murmured, his voice thick with a strange, fierce emotion as he looked down at her in the moonlight. "You stood before the wolves and didn't blink."
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"I was blinking inside," she gasped, her hands clutched against his tuxedo lapels. "Marco... he looked at me like he wanted to kill me."
"He did," Marco said, his face moving closer to hers, his breath warm against the winter chill. "But he knows that to kill you, he has to go through me. And he is not strong enough for that. No one is."
