Chapter 6 - The Viper’s Banquet
The quarterly gala of the Five Families was traditionally held at the Grand Plaza Ballroom—a lavish, gilded affair meant to project unity and peace among the city's reigning crime syndicates. This year, however, the air was poison.
Clara walked down the grand marble staircase on Dante’s arm, wearing a floor-length emerald silk dress that subtly concealed the silver scars on her back and side. Beside them walked Rosa, radiant in sapphire velvet, her recovery near complete. Surrounding the trio was an impenetrable wall of Marino guards, but the real armor was the quiet, dangerous confidence radiating from Dante and Clara.
As they moved through the ballroom, whispers swept across the floor like dry leaves in a storm.
"Is that the girl?" a rival capo whispered behind his champagne glass. "The one who took five rounds for old lady Marino?"
"Look at her," another replied. "She doesn't look like an assassin, but she stood up to Russo's crew without blinking."
At the center table sat Don Valenti—an eighty-year-old tyrant whose family controlled the Brooklyn docks and international smuggling routes. He watched Clara approach with cold, hooded eyes, his arthritic hands resting on a gold-topped cane.
"Dante," Valenti growled softly as Dante pulled out a chair for Clara. "You bring your civilian doctor to a table of kings? You build clinics while the docks lose ground to the Russians?"
The surrounding tables fell dead silent. Dozens of eyes turned toward the main table, waiting to see if Dante Marino would strike the old man down or back away.
Before Dante could speak, Clara leaned forward, resting her elbows lightly on the table. Her voice, though low and smooth, carried effortlessly across the quiet room.
"With all due respect, Don Valenti," Clara said, her blue eyes icy and unflinching. "If those docks are losing ground, it isn't because of my foundation. It’s because your lieutenants have been skim-reading two percent off the shipping manifests in Greenpoint for six months—a leak my auditors uncovered while clearing medical bills for your dockworkers."
Valenti’s face flushed a deep, mottled purple. "What did you say?"
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Clara slid a thin leather folder across the white tablecloth. "Every name, every offshore account, every stolen container. Dante didn't lose his edge, Don Valenti. He simply handed the ledger to someone who knows how to spot a lie. I spent years calculating hospital overcharges; your men's amateur bookkeeping was child's play."
Dante smiled—a slow, terrifyingly cold curve of his lips—and rested his hand over Clara’s on the table. "You wanted to know if my woman makes me weak, Valenti. Now you know. She doesn't just protect my mother. She guards my throne."
