Chapter 5 - The Snake in the Garden
The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a sea of gilded mirrors, towering crystal chandeliers, and four hundred people drinking champagne while pretending their fortunes weren't soaked in blood.
The jazz orchestra was playing a low, sultry standard from the balcony as Dante escorted me through the arched entrance.
His hand rested firmly on the small of my bare back, guiding me through the crowd of politicians, federal judges, and corporate titans. Everywhere we walked, conversations dipped into hushed murmurs. Men in bespoke tuxedos bowed their heads with deferential smiles; women draped in diamonds watched me with sharp, calculating eyes, wondering who the unknown woman in the emerald gown was on the arm of the city’s undisputed king.
“Smile, Adriana,” Dante murmured into my ear, his breath warm against my hair. “They’re watching your pulse.”
“I’m trying not to trip on this silk,” I whispered back through a practiced society smile. “Table four. The man with the silver goatee and the purple tie. That’s Donald Hayes. The senior port inspector for the Calumet terminal.”
“Good girl,” Dante said softly.
The casual, intimate praise sent a tiny thrill racing down my neck, but before I could savor it, the air around us shifted.
A knot of five men stepped out from behind the marble pillars near the champagne fountain.
At the center walked Matteo Vega.
He was thirty-five, sharp-featured, with slicked-back black hair and cold, reptilian brown eyes that moved with the restless paranoia of a predator. He wore an immaculate midnight-blue tuxedo, a heavy gold signet ring on his pinky, and a scar that ran from the corner of his lip down into his trimmed beard.
“Dante,” Matteo drawled, stepping directly into our path, holding a crystal flute of vintage Dom Pérignon. “I didn't think the Heritage Foundation allowed loan sharks on the guest list.”
Dante didn't flinch. His hand on my lower back remained steady as iron, though I felt the muscle in his forearm tighten.
“They make exceptions for the people who pay the building’s taxes, Matteo,” Dante replied smoothly, his voice pleasant, carrying that chilling, effortless dominance that made everyone within twenty feet step backward. “I see your father couldn't make the trip north. The damp lake air must be hard on his lungs.”
Matteo’s smile curdled. A flash of venomous rage crossed his eyes before his gaze dropped from Dante’s face to mine.
He stopped.
His brown eyes widened slightly, tracking the emerald silk, the curve of my collarbone, and then settling onto my face. A slow, repulsive smirk spread across his lips—the look of a man recognizing a stolen prize.
“Well, well,” Matteo purred, stepping six inches closer, ignoring Dante entirely as he stared directly into my eyes. “Who is this exquisite creature? Dante, you never told the council you had such magnificent taste in companions.”
He reached out his right hand, intending to take my fingers to press a kiss to my knuckles.
Before his fingers could touch my skin, Dante moved.
It was blindingly fast. Dante caught Matteo’s wrist mid-air with an iron grip that forced the younger mobster’s arm down.
The crystal flute in Matteo’s other hand trembled, champagne sloshing over the rim.
The two bodyguards behind Matteo instinctively reached inside their tuxedo jackets, but Frank and three of Dante’s men materialized from the crowd behind us, their hands already resting on the concealed grips beneath their lapels.
The music didn't stop, but the laughter within ten yards evaporated.
“You don't touch her, Matteo,” Dante whispered.
His voice didn't rise above a murmur, but it carried the weight of a dropped guillotine.
“You don't look at her. You don't speak her name. If your shadow falls across her path again in this city, I will personally pull your tongue through your throat and feed it to the gulls on the pier.”
Matteo’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He tried to pull his wrist free, but Dante’s fingers didn't yield an inch.
“She’s David Parker’s daughter, isn't she?” Matteo hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes flaring with malicious triumph. “I recognized the chin. My father told me about the mechanic who thought he could steal from the Vega family. Tell me, Dante... does she know that her father was working for my father before you bought him off?”
The room seemed to tilt on its axis.
My breath stopped in my throat. I looked at Dante.
Dante didn't answer. He simply twisted Matteo’s wrist downward by a fraction of an inch—just enough to force the younger boss to bend his knees to keep his joint from snapping.
“Get out of my sight,” Dante murmured.
He released him with a flick of disgust. Matteo stumbled back, catching himself against his bodyguard’s chest, rubbing his bruised wrist, his face mottled with purple fury.
“Enjoy the gala, Dante!” Matteo sneered, backing away toward the terrace exits with his men flanking him. “Because the river is rising. And when the dam breaks, you won't be able to save her twice!”
Dante didn't look at him. He turned to me, his hands catching my bare upper arms, his gray eyes searching my face with an urgent, fierce intensity.
“Adriana,” he said.
“Did my father work for them?” I whispered, my voice trembling as the world began to fracture around me. “Dante... tell me the truth. Did he work for the Vegas?”
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Before Dante could speak, a sharp, deafening CRACK tore through the grand ballroom.
The towering crystal chandelier above the center floor exploded into a thousand glittering shards of lethal glass.
