Chapter 5 - THE CRACK IN THE GLASS
The room collapsed into dead, suffocating silence.
Don Antonio looked at the screen, then at his daughter, his thick brows drawing together into a thunderous storm. "What is that?"
Vanessa sprang to her feet, knocking her mimosa over. The orange liquid spread across the white tablecloth like a toxic stain. "It’s a forgery! This is ridiculous! Luca, you bring this street trash into our negotiations and let her fabricate documents to insult my family?"
She lunged forward, her hand swinging wildly toward my face.
Before her palm could touch me, Luca’s hand shot out.
He caught her wrist in mid-air.
His grip was iron. The sound of his fingers locking around her delicate bone was audible across the table. Vanessa gasped, her eyes widening in genuine shock as Luca slowly rose to his full height, looming over her.
"You like grabbing wrists, don't you?" Luca whispered, his voice vibrating with controlled violence. "You broke the skin on Claire’s arm yesterday, Vanessa. Do you think I don't know what four finger-marks look like on a woman’s flesh?"
"Luca—let go of her!" Don Antonio shouted, slamming his heavy palms onto the table, his guards immediately reaching beneath their coats.
Across the room, Marco pulled his semi-automatic pistol.
"Step back, Boss," Marco said, his voice dropping all pretense of loyalty. The mask had completely shattered. "Let the girl go."
I didn't scream. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, but I forced my feet to stay planted on the floor behind Luca.
Luca didn't flinch at the sight of the gun pointed at his chest. He slowly released Vanessa’s wrist. She stumbled back, clutching her arm, retreating behind her father.
"Twelve years, Marco," Luca said, keeping his eyes on his best man. "I pulled you out of the gutters of South Boston. I gave you half the docks. And you sell me out to Bellini's rogue captains for three million and a bride?"
"You got soft, Luca," Marco sneered, his gun never wavering. "Ever since your father died, you talk about legitimate supply chains. Clean shipping. Real estate. The Bellinis know where the real money is. But you were never going to let Antonio run the northern corridor. So Vanessa and I made an executive decision."
"You think Antonio knew about this?" Luca asked, tilting his head slightly toward the old man.
Don Antonio’s face had turned an apoplectic shade of purple. "Marco... what the hell are you talking about? I didn't authorize a hit on Moretti!"
Vanessa turned pale. "Papa, shut up—"
"You stupid little bitch!" the old Don roared, realizing the trap he had been walked into. "You tried to stage a coup under my name?"
"It doesn't matter who authorized it," Marco snapped, his finger tightening on the trigger. "The building perimeter is mine. Every guard on this floor answers to my payroll, not yours, Luca. We take you out here, blame it on an unauthorized ambush by the rival Irish syndicate, and Vanessa and I run the Midwest together."
"You made one mistake, Marco," Luca said calmly.
"Yeah? What's that?"
"You assumed my security detail only had one layer."
The heavy double doors of the private dining room blew off their hinges with a deafening crack.
Flash-bang grenades tore through the air, releasing an ear-splitting bang and blinding white light. I dropped to the floor instantly, covering my ears, my back slamming against the mahogany base of the dining table.
Gunfire erupted above me—sharp, disciplined, suppressed pops that sounded like staplers tearing through drywall.
Through the haze of white smoke, I saw Luca move with terrifying, fluid lethality. He didn't dive for cover. He drew a custom black Kimber 1911 from his shoulder holster, fired twice into the ceiling to suppress the line of fire, and grabbed me by the collar of my ivory coat, hauling me behind a reinforced pillar.
"Stay down," he commanded, his breath steady, his eyes completely locked onto the smoke.
"Luca!" Marco’s voice echoed through the haze, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps heading toward the emergency fire exit. "This isn't over! You hear me? The whole city is going to burn before you make it to Sunday!"
When the smoke cleared thirty seconds later, four of Marco’s rogue guards were lying face down on the Persian carpet, disarmed and zip-tied by an elite tactical unit wearing unmarked black gear.
Don Antonio was slumped in his chair, breathing heavily, his hands raised in surrender.
Vanessa was on her knees in the corner of the room, her emerald suit torn at the shoulder, tears of genuine terror streaming down her ruined mascara.
And Marco was gone through the fire escape.
May you like
Luca walked slowly toward Vanessa. The barrel of his weapon hung loosely at his side, smoke curling from the ejection port. He stopped two feet away from his weeping fiancée.
"The wedding," Luca said softly, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears, "is still on."
