18: The Morning After

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

POV: Julian Vane

The sunlight hitting the floor of the Moretti master suite was too bright, too clinical. It didn't belong in a world that had been bathed in fire and shadow only hours before.

I sat at the edge of the bed, wrapped in a black silk robe, watching the news on a muted television. The headlines were a frantic crawl of "CATHEDRAL MASSACRE" and "TERROR IN THE STREETS." They showed aerial footage of the charred remains of the Jimenez sedans and the blackened stone of the church. The police were calling it a "clash between rival international cartels," carefully avoiding the name Moretti.

Dante’s money was working. The narrative was being shaped.

"Turn it off," Dante’s voice rasped from behind me.

I didn't turn. I felt the bed shift as he sat up. He had a bandage on his shoulder where a stray piece of glass had sliced him, but otherwise, he looked untouched by the carnage. He reached out, his hand sliding over the silk of my robe to rest on the small of my back.

"We have to be at the St. Jude’s Children’s Benefit in three hours," I said, my voice sounding flat even to my own ears. "The Mayor will be there. The District Attorney will be there. We have to be the grieving, concerned couple."

"I know," Dante murmured, his face pressing into the crook of my neck. "But for now, the world can wait outside that door."

"Dante," I said, finally turning to look at him. "Marcus. He’s gone. Truly gone this time. I felt the blast. I saw him fall."

Dante’s eyes were dark, searching mine. "Is that a regret, Julian? Or a relief?"

"It’s a vacancy," I admitted. "For twenty-four years, being a Vane meant being under his thumb or Leo’s shadow. Now... I don't know who I am without someone to fight against."

Dante pulled me back against the pillows, his body a heavy, grounding weight. "You’re a Moretti. And tonight, you aren't fighting your brothers. You’re fighting for the soul of this city. Every person in that ballroom today needs to look at you and see the future. Not the 'Golden Prince,' but the King’s Consort."

The St. Jude’s Gala was the height of high-society performance. It was held at the Pierre Hotel, a room filled with the scent of lilies and the tinkling of crystal. These were the people who pretended the underworld didn't exist while cashing the checks that kept it running.

I wore a white tuxedo a deliberate choice to look "innocent" against the dark headlines of the morning. Dante was in classic black, a shadow at my side. As we entered the ballroom, the room didn't go silent as it had at the first gala. Instead, a wave of whispers followed us. We were the "survivors" of the Vane tragedy. We were the tragic couple who had lost so much.

"Mr. Moretti, Mr. Vane-Moretti," a woman in a Chanel suit chirped, floating toward us. It was Mrs. Gable, the city’s premiere socialite. "We were so distressed to hear about the Cathedral. Such a tragedy for your family, Julian."

"Thank you, Evelyn," I said, my voice a perfect mask of soft mourning. I let my hand rest on Dante’s arm. "It’s been a difficult time. But Dante has been my rock. We’re just trying to focus on the future now."

"Of course, of course," she said, her eyes flitting to Dante with a mixture of fear and fascination. "And the Vane shipping assets? I hear there’s talk of a merger?"

"A consolidation," Dante corrected, his voice like velvet over gravel. "To ensure stability in the docks. We wouldn't want the city’s commerce to suffer during such a transition."

As we moved away, I felt a pair of eyes on us that didn't feel like the others. It wasn't the voyeuristic gaze of a socialite. It was the clinical, predatory stare of a hunter.

I looked toward the bar. Standing there, holding a club soda, was a woman in a sharp, grey suit. She wasn't wearing jewelry. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun. She didn't seem to belong at a gala. She looked like she belonged in a courtroom.

"Who is that?" I whispered to Dante.

Dante didn't look, but I felt his arm stiffen beneath my hand. "That is Special Agent Sarah Vance. FBI. Organized Crime Division."

"Vance?" I asked. "Like... our name?"

"No relation," Dante said. "But she’s been obsessed with my family for ten years. She’s the one who’s been trying to flip my Capos. She’s the reason Silvio thought he could get away with skimming she was whispering in his ear, promising him immunity if he gave her my head on a platter."

As if she heard us, Agent Vance began to walk toward us. The crowd seemed to part for her, sensing the shift in energy. She stopped three feet away, a small, tight smile on her face.

"Mr. Moretti," she said. "And the new Mr. Moretti. Congratulations on the nuptials. I haven't had the chance to send a gift."

"Your absence from my doorstep has been gift enough, Agent Vance," Dante replied.

She turned her gaze to me, her eyes scanning my face, lingering on the small red mark on my temple. "You’ve had quite a week, Julian. From a basement to a marriage to a massacre. You must be exhausted."

"I've found a new sense of purpose, Agent," I said.

"Have you?" She stepped a fraction closer, lowering her voice. "Because I have a file on my desk, Julian. It’s a very old file. It’s about a shipping manifest from fifteen years ago. A manifest that was authorized by your father, but executed by a young Moretti enforcer named Dante."

My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my face frozen.

"The manifest was for a shipment of chemicals that ended up in an apartment fire in the North End," she continued. "A fire that killed your mother, Julian."

The world seemed to tilt. The music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses it all went silent. I felt Dante’s hand tighten on my waist, his grip almost painful.

"That's a very bold lie, Agent," Dante said, his voice a low, lethal hiss.

"Is it?" Vance smiled, and this time it reached her eyes a cold, triumphant look. "I have the signature, Dante. Your signature on the delivery. And Arthur Vane’s signature on the order. Your husband didn't just buy you, Julian. He’s the reason you grew up without a mother. He’s been cleaning up your father’s messes for a long time."

She tucked a small business card into my tuxedo pocket. "Call me when you realize the man you’re sleeping with is the one who lit the match."

She turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

I stood there, the white silk of my tuxedo feeling like a shroud. I didn't look at Dante. I couldn't.

"Julian," Dante whispered, his voice sounding raw. "She’s a liar. She’s trying to break us."

"Is she?" I asked, finally turning to look at him. "Is she lying about the signature, Dante?"

Dante didn't answer. The silence was the only confirmation I needed.

I pulled away from him, the warmth of his touch suddenly feeling like a burn. I walked toward the balcony, needing air, needing to get away from the lilies and the crystal and the man who might have killed my mother.

The "Morning After" had just become the beginning of a whole new war.