Chapter 9 : The Devil's Invitation

Victoria never boarded that flight to Zurich," I said, watching in the vanity mirror as Dante stepped out of the dressing room in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo. "A coward running for her life doesn't send a warning five minutes after we interrogate her accomplice. Someone inside your estate tipped her off that Pier 4 failed."

​Dante stopped behind my chair, his obsidian eyes meeting mine in the glass. Without a word, he lifted a diamond serpent necklace from its velvet box and draped the cold platinum around my throat. His warm fingers lingered against my collarbone, sending a slow shiver down my spine.

​"Enzo already swept the perimeter," Dante murmured, his thumb tracing the pulse hammering at the base of my neck. "He intercepted two catering vans half a mile from the north service gate ten minutes ago. Four blocks of C4 were hidden inside the flour crates."

​I turned to face him, frowning as my emerald silk gown rustled against my ankles. "Wait. If Enzo caught the vans so easily, where was Mateo Vance?"

​"Not in the driver’s seat," Dante replied darkly. Kneeling before me, he slid a leather holster up my bare thigh, strapping my silver Sig Sauer securely beneath the slit of my dress. His palm burned against my skin as he looked up into my eyes. "Which means the vans were bait, piccola. And Sergio Bellini is downstairs waiting to see why my ballroom hasn't blown up yet."

​Ten minutes later, crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the grand ballroom as I walked down the marble staircase on Dante’s arm.

​Every syndicate boss and politician in Chicago turned to stare. They had expected Arthur Laurent’s replacement bride to look like a trembling hostage; instead, I wore the Moretti diamonds and walked beside the ruthless Don like an equal.

​At the head table, Sergio Bellini rose with a glass of scotch in his unsteady hand. The silver-haired capo forced an oily smile across his weathered face, though his vulture-like eyes kept darting toward the grandfather clock by the archway.

​5:58 PM. Two minutes before six.

​"A toast to our newlyweds," Bellini announced loudly, drawing the attention of the surrounding tables. He leaned across the white tablecloth, his gaze narrowing on me with thinly veiled contempt. "Though I must admit, the south side capos were surprised when our Don settled for the quiet younger sister. Tell us, Mrs. Moretti—do you actually understand how our territories work, or are you just here to wear the jewelry?"

​Dead silence fell across the banquet hall. Twenty ruthless men waited to see if I would fold.

​I didn't even blink. Lifting my champagne flute, I offered Bellini a cold, razor-sharp smile.

​"I understand numbers, Sergio," I replied smoothly, my voice carrying clearly over the hushed crowd. "For instance, I know your south side casinos reported a three-million-dollar deficit last quarter—right around the time someone used authorization code Capo-Zero-Three at four this morning to pair an external transponder with this mansion’s security grid."

​All color drained from Bellini’s face. His scotch glass trembled violently. "What are you talking about? That’s absurd—"

​"Is it?" Dante cut in, his baritone lethal and calm as he took his seat beside me.

​With a flick of his wrist, Dante signaled Enzo.

​Two guards stepped up to the head table carrying a covered silver serving platter. Enzo set it directly in front of Bellini’s plate and lifted the dome.

​Sitting on the silver tray were the four grey blocks of military-grade C4 from the catering truck.

​Gasps echoed from the nearby tables as several capos reached inside their jackets. Bellini staggered backward against his chair, sweat drenching his collar as Dante slowly drew his Beretta and rested the barrel on the white linen, pointed squarely at the traitor’s chest.

​"You forgot your appetizer at the north gate, Sergio," Dante said softly. "Now tell my wife where Mateo Vance really is before I paint this tablecloth with your brains."

​Bellini stared at the explosives, his chest heaving in panic—until my eyes caught something wrong with the grey clay blocks on the tray.

​My heart stopped. I grabbed Dante’s sleeve.

​"Dante, look at the blasting caps," I whispered urgently. "There are no receiver chips wired into this C4. Even if those trucks had reached the kitchen, these bricks couldn't detonate."

​Bellini’s terror suddenly twisted into a manic, bloodied grin.

​"You think Calderon wanted to blow up a dining room full of replaceable capos?" Bellini rasped, laughing wildly as blood trickled from his bitten lip. "Mateo didn't need the north gate! I gave them the biometric bypass to the subterranean wine tunnel twenty minutes ago!"

​Above us, the massive crystal chandelier violently shuddered as a muffled, concussive blast rocked the third floor of the mansion. Plaster dust rained down onto the white tablecloths as screams erupted across the ballroom and security alarms began to wail.

​"The third floor," I breathed, ice flooding my veins. "Your private study—where we locked the harbor deeds!"

​Before Dante could bark an order, the encrypted radio clipped to Enzo’s belt crackled to life with static. A woman’s cold, familiar voice echoed straight through the speaker into the stunned ballroom:

​"Hello, Dante. I told my little sister to take off that wedding ring before six o'clock. Now come upstairs and watch me burn your empire to the ground—starting with the Laurent harbor deeds."

​Victoria. She wasn't in Switzerland. She was right above our heads.