Chapter 13 - Dancing in the Viper’s Pit
The Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was an ocean of black ties, diamond tiaras, and false smiles.
Champagne flowed from ice sculptures, an orchestra played Vivaldi from the mezzanine, and men whose signatures controlled billions laughed over cigars. But underneath the glittering veneer lay raw, predatory power.
When the heavy brass doors opened and Ricardo Moretti entered, the room didn't fall silent—it hitched its breath.
And then every pair of eyes shifted to me.
I kept my chin held high, matching Ricardo’s slow, measured stride. My fingers were tucked into the crook of his arm, feeling the rock-hard tension in his bicep. Four armed bodyguards in formal attire followed ten paces behind, their eyes constantly scanning the balconies.
"Look at them," Ricardo murmured without moving his lips. "They are trying to figure out which royal house you belong to."
"Let them guess," I whispered back, offering a polite, icy smile to a senator who bowed his head toward Ricardo.
Across the marble floor, near the Temple of Dendur display, stood Antonio Rossi.
He was an old vulture in an ivory tuxedo, his face lined with cruelty, his silver hair slicked back. Beside him stood Sofia, radiating venom in a scarlet gown that looked like an open wound.
When Sofia saw me, her champagne glass trembled in her hand. Her eyes locked onto the emerald dress, and then onto the silver phoenix resting on my throat.
Her face drained of all color.
"Ricardo," Antonio Rossi called out, his gravelly voice cutting through the orchestra’s music as we approached. "I see you survived your recent... logistical difficulties."
"I always survive, Antonio," Ricardo replied smoothly, stopping five feet from the rival Don. "Traitors have a way of dying quickly around me. It saves on severance packages."
Antonio’s eyes narrowed into slits. "And who is your charming companion? Sofia told me you had hired an unruly maid."
Sofia sneered, stepping forward. "She stole that necklace from your vault, Ricardo! That belongs to the Rossi-Moretti treaty! She’s a thief who belongs in prison!"
I didn't cower. I took half a step forward, looking Sofia dead in her furious, perfectly painted eyes.
"The locket was given to me by Leo Moretti," I said clearly, my voice carrying across the silent circle of watching elites. "A child who knows the difference between a real mother and a viper wearing diamonds."
Gasps rippled through the surrounding crowd. No one spoke to the Rossis like that. No civilian ever survived it.
Sofia’s hand shot up to strike me—just as she had done in the sunroom.
This time, she didn't even get close.
Ricardo’s hand caught her by the throat, shoving her backward against the marble pedestal of an Egyptian statue. The glass in her hand shattered against the floor, spraying red wine across her scarlet dress.
A dozen men drew weapons under their tuxedo jackets.
In an instant, Ricardo’s men responded, drawing their own guns, the sharp, metallic clicks of cocking hammers echoing like firecrackers through the grand hall.
Women screamed. Society elites scattered like roaches.
Antonio Rossi reached for his gun, but Ricardo’s voice stopped every heart in the room.
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"Draw it, Antonio," Ricardo whispered, his hand still tight around Sofia's throat, his eyes blazing with murderous certainty. "Draw it, and not a single person bearing the Rossi name leaves this museum alive."
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