33: The Lion and the Wolf

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

POV: Dante Moretti

The ballroom of the Savoy was a cavernous monument to a dying era a sea of old gold, white ties, and the kind of quiet, arrogant power that only comes from a thousand years of unearned wealth and carefully curated bloodlines. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and the underlying, metallic tang of cold ambition.

Julian moved through the crowd like a shark in a koi pond. He was a Vane by blood, an aristocrat of the New World, but he had become a Moretti in spirit sharp, cold, and utterly relentless. He wore a suit of midnight-blue silk that seemed to absorb the light of the crystal chandeliers, making him look like a shadow cast against the gilded walls.

I watched from the shadows of a massive marble pillar, a glass of vintage scotch forgotten in my hand. I played the part they expected: the "American muscle," the blunt instrument of the Moretti name. It was a useful mask. It allowed the "Old Guard" of London to underestimate the man standing in the center of the room until his teeth were already at their throats.

I watched as Julian approached Lord Alistair Cavendish. Alistair was a man made of tweed, entitlement, and generations of inbreeding. His face was currently flushed a deep, unhealthy purple a combination of too much gin and the mounting pressure of a world he no longer understood.

"Lord Cavendish," Julian said, his voice a melodic purr that I knew preceded a kill. It was the sound of a silk cord being tightened around a neck.

"Moretti," Cavendish spat, looking Julian up and down with blatant, unchecked condescension. He adjusted his sash as if the mere proximity of my husband was a stain on his heritage. "I believe I was quite clear with your husband’s solicitors. The Rotherhithe terminal is a crown jewel of the London Docklands. It is not for sale to... people of your specific background. This is a city of legacy, not a frontier for upstarts."

"Background is such a fluid concept in the digital age, don't you think?" Julian asked. He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter with a grace that made the Earl look clumsy and bloated. He took a sip, his eyes never leaving Cavendish’s face. "For instance, your background involves a very interesting set of offshore accounts in Tortola. Accounts that, as of three o'clock this afternoon, report to a board of directors chaired by me."

Cavendish froze. The glass in his hand wobbled, the champagne spilling over his knuckles. The color drained from his face with such violent speed it left him looking like a piece of gray, weathered parchment. "You... you can't have. Those are private family matters. Sacred trusts."

"Privacy is an illusion in the age of the 'Blood Audit', Alistair," Julian said, leaning in closer. He didn't raise his voice, but the intensity of it cut through the orchestral swell of the violins. "I don't want your titles. I don't want your moldy manor in Sussex. I want the terminal. Sign the lease tonight, and the 'distasteful' debt disappears into the fog. Refuse... and I’ll make sure the Inland Revenue and the BBC are knocking on your door before the orchestra finishes the next waltz."

I chose that moment to step out of the shadows. I moved with a heavy, silent deliberation, closing the distance until I stood directly behind Julian. I didn't say a word. I didn't need to. I just let the shadow of my frame fall over the smaller man, the sheer physical threat of my presence acting as the final punctuation mark to Julian's sentence. I let him see the "Butcher" beneath the tuxedo the man who had burned down an empire in the West to build the one that was currently choking him in the East.

Cavendish looked at Julian the Wolf and then at me, the Lion. He saw the future in our eyes: a world where the old walls were being torn down by men who didn't care about heraldry, only about the ledger. He saw that his century-old defenses were useless against an auditor who could bankrupt him with a keystroke and a husband who could bury him without a trace.

"I’ll... I’ll have my people call yours in the morning," Cavendish whispered, his voice trembling so hard the ice in his glass rattled. "We can discuss terms."

"No," Julian said, his voice turning into ice. He pulled a slim, digital contract from the inner pocket of his jacket, the screen glowing with a predatory white light. "You'll sign it now. My husband is a notoriously impatient man, and I’d hate to see him get bored at such a lovely party. Boredom makes him... impulsive."

I leaned in just enough for Cavendish to smell the scotch and the cold intent on my breath.

With a hand that shook so violently he nearly dropped the stylus, Cavendish scrawled his name on the digital line. As the "Confirmed" notification flashed across the screen, Julian looked at me and winked.

"The terminal is ours, Dante," he whispered, tucking the device away. "Let’s go. I’ve had quite enough of the tea."

I wrapped my arm around his waist, pulling him close as we walked toward the exit, leaving the high-society vipers to whisper in our wake. We had the gateway to Europe. We had the debt of a Lord. And most importantly, I had the man who knew exactly how to use both.