Chapter 5 - The Gala of Wolves
The Blackwood Club was the crown jewel of the city’s elite corruption. Perched on the top two floors of an art deco skyscraper, it was accessible only by private brass elevators that required biometric clearance. Behind its soundproofed, floor-to-ceiling glass walls, politicians drank bourbon with cartel liaisons, and judges shared cigars with loan sharks.
Tonight, the penthouse lounge was reserved for a private summit.
Jazz played softly over hidden speakers—a mournful, slow tune that Camila had ironically requested to set the mood for “mourning.” She stood near the panoramic glass looking out over the glittering skyline of the city, dressed in a backless emerald-green silk gown that shimmered under the crystal chandeliers. In her left hand, she swirled a coupe of champagne.
“To new beginnings,” Camila murmured, turning to Lorenzo.
Lorenzo looked less celebratory. He was sweating through his bespoke tuxedo, checking his diamond-encrusted watch every thirty seconds. He had two armed bodyguards standing directly behind him, their hands resting inside their jackets.
“The Romanos are late,” Lorenzo hissed under his breath. “Don Sal Romano doesn't do late unless he’s planning an ambush.”
“Relax,” Camila said coldly, her voice sharp as glass. “Sal is an old man who likes to make people wait. It’s theater, Lorenzo. The papers are already drawn up. We sign over the shipping manifests, he hands over the bearer bonds for forty million, and we walk away untouchable.”
“And Vincent’s body?” Lorenzo asked, his eyes darting toward the elevator doors. “Did your man clear the room?”
“He texted forty minutes ago. The machine was disabled; the injection was delivered. The private doctor will sign the death certificate by morning. As far as the law is concerned, Vincent Costa died of natural heart failure brought on by his stroke.” Camila smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “He was an arrogant brute who thought he could control this city forever. He built a fortress, Lorenzo, but he forgot to lock the bedroom door.”
A chime echoed through the lounge.
The brass elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss.
Sal Romano stepped out, flanked by six imposing men in heavy wool overcoats. The old Don was seventy years old, with silver hair combed straight back and eyes that had seen forty years of gang wars. He carried a silver-topped walking cane and walked with a slow, deliberate cadence that commanded instant silence in the room.
“Don Sal,” Camila said, offering a practiced, dazzling smile as she stepped forward with her hand extended. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Sal Romano didn't take her hand. He stopped three feet away, his pale eyes inspecting her like an inspector evaluating flawed merchandise.
“You look very cheerful for a woman whose husband-to-be hasn't even reached room temperature,” Romano rasped, his voice sounding like two dry stones grinding together.
Camila withdrew her hand smoothly, unbothered by the insult. “Vincent was a business partner, Don Sal. You of all people understand that sentimentality is bad for the balance sheet.”
“Sentimentality gets you killed,” Romano agreed, leaning on his cane. “Betrayal gets you buried. But tonight, I am a businessman.” He gestured to his right-hand man, who placed a heavy leather briefcase onto the mahogany bar. “The bearer bonds. Forty million, untraceable, backed by offshore banks in Zurich. In exchange, I want the master access keys to the southern docks and the fuel contracts.”
Lorenzo stepped forward, his trembling hands pulling a thick sheaf of legal transfer documents from his breast pocket. “Everything is right here, Don Sal. Signed with Costa family power of attorney. Once you counter-sign, the docks are officially yours.”
Romano unscrewed a heavy gold fountain pen. “A historic night. The end of the Costa dynasty. Vincent’s father would roll in his grave knowing his empire was sold off by a frightened dog and an unfaithful bride.”
Lorenzo’s face flushed red, but he swallowed the insult. The money was within reach. Freedom was within reach.
Down on the thirty-fourth floor, inside the dimly lit service staging kitchen, Tessa watched the red light on her handheld radio turn green.
She was dressed in black utility pants and an oversized staff jacket, her hair pulled back under a catering cap. Beside her, Marco, her cousin, was biting his fingernails nervously beside an industrial linen hamper.
“Tessa, if they find out I let you up here with this cargo, they’ll put me in a cement mixer,” Marco whispered, his voice trembling.
“They won’t find out,” Tessa said, her hand gently touching her bandaged ribs. The pain was dull now, masked by the adrenaline surging through her veins. She tapped her earpiece. “Vincent. We’re in position at the freight lift. The floor above is clear.”
A deep, quiet voice answered directly into her ear, vibrating with absolute authority.
*“Hold your position for sixty seconds, Tessa. When the lights go out, stay inside the lift. Do not move until I call for you.”*
“Vincent, wait—”
The radio clicked off.
Back in the penthouse, Don Sal Romano dipped the nib of his gold pen toward the signature line of the transfer contract.
“To peace in the city,” Camila toasted softly, raising her glass.
Then, the world went black.
Every light in the Blackwood Club died simultaneously. The music cut off mid-measure. The panoramic view of the skyline vanished into absolute darkness as the auxiliary backup generators shrieked, sparked, and died under an engineered system overload.
Panic exploded in the darkness.
“Security!” Lorenzo screamed, drawing his gun. “Get the lights on! Lock the elevators!”
“Nobody moves!” Romano’s men shouted, weapons sliding from leather holsters with a flurry of metallic clicks.
For three agonizing seconds, there was only the sound of heavy breathing, shuffling feet, and the howling wind against the exterior skyscraper glass.
Then, the emergency exit door at the far end of the ballroom opened with a slow, agonizing groan of hinges.
Through the darkness, the red emergency exit signs cast a bloody, crimson glow across the polished floorboards.
Standing in the doorway, illuminated like a specter rising from the underworld, was Vincent Costa.
He was dressed in an immaculate charcoal-gray three-piece suit, his hands resting casually inside his pockets, his posture towering and utterly relaxed.
Behind him, two of Romano’s perimeter guards lay unconscious and bleeding on the landing.
Camila dropped her champagne glass.
The crystal shattered across the hardwood floor, the sound ringing out like a gunshot in the frozen silence.
Vincent looked across the crimson-lit room, his dark eyes locking directly onto his terrified fiancée.
May you like
“I hope I’m not interrupting the funeral,” Vincent said softly.
***
