Chapter 5 - The Gathering at the Saint Regis
The grand ballroom of the Saint Regis Hotel was an arena of cold mahogany, gold leaf, and deadly silence.
Seated around a massive oval table were the heads of the Seven Families that ruled the East Coast. Surrounding them were fifty heavily armed bodyguards, their hands resting on concealed weapons beneath their Italian silk coats.
At the head of the table sat Don Falcone—a heavy, bloated man sixty years of age, with greasy silver hair and eyes like a vulture.
When the heavy oak doors opened, a cold draft swept through the hall.
Adrien Viscari walked in, wearing a tailored midnight-black tuxedo that accentuated his broad shoulders and commanding height. But he did not walk alone.
Beside him, holding his arm with effortless regal grace, was me.
I wore a floor-length velvet dress the color of deep crimson, fitted tightly to my curves, with a plunging neckline that showcased the silver Moretti rose pin pinned right over my heart. My hair fell in soft, dark waves over my shoulders, and my chin was raised high, my brown eyes scanning the hardened killers in the room without a single flicker of fear.
The room fell into a suffocating, absolute silence.
"Viscari," Don Falcone grumbled, slamming his liver-spotted hand onto the table. "You dare bring a civilian girl into the Commission chamber?! This is a violation of protocol!"
"She is no civilian, Falcone," Adrien declared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings like thunder. "She is Elena Moretti. Daughter of Don Victor Moretti, rightful sovereign of the five boroughs."
A collective gasp rippled through the older bosses sitting at the table.
Don Falcone let out a harsh, rasping laugh. "Moretti?! Victor Moretti died twenty years ago without an heir! This girl is a fake! A street rat found in a club!"
I stepped forward, breaking away from Adrien’s arm, and placed both hands flat on the mahogany table, leaning down to stare straight into Falcone’s ugly face.
"My father died ten years ago in upstate New York, Falcone," I said, my voice ringing clear and strong through the ballroom. "He hid me because he knew that cowards like you would slaughter a seven-year-old child to keep the lands you stole. But I am back. And I have the bloodline, the deeds, and the firepower to reclaim every brick my family laid in this city."
Don Falcone’s grin faltered. He looked at the silver rose pin on my chest, then at the absolute, terrifying confidence in my eyes.
"You have no standing here!" Falcone barked, looking around at the other Dons. "Brothers! Are we going to let a girl and a rogue Viscari tear down twenty years of peace?!"
An old, dignified Don sitting at the far end of the table—Don D'Angelo of Chicago—slowly stood up. He adjusted his glasses and looked closely at my face.
"She has Victor’s eyes," D'Angelo murmured softly. "And she speaks with the fire of her mother, Isabella. Falcone... you told us twenty years ago that the Moretti family was wiped out in a gas explosion. You never mentioned a surviving child."
"She’s an imposter!" Falcone screamed, pulling a black revolver from his suit jacket.
Before Falcone could aim at my chest, Adrien’s move was blindingly fast.
BANG!
A single shot echoed through the ballroom.
Falcone gasped, dropping his gun as a red hole opened in the center of his right hand. He fell back into his leather chair, clutching his bloody wrist, screaming in pain.
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Adrien stood over the table, his smoking gun held loosely in his hand, his grey eyes locked onto the wounded Don.
"If anyone raises a weapon in the presence of my fiancée again," Adrien growled, his voice so dark it sent a chill down the spines of every man in the room, "I won't aim for the hand."
