Chapter 16 - The Lions' Den
The tension in the ballroom escalated from simmering hostility to the brink of an outright massacre.
Several women in the crowd gasped, stepping back, while men on both sides subtly reached into their jackets, resting their hands on concealed holsters.
Victor didn't flinch. He didn't even drop his hand from my waist.
“You wanted this council, Moretti,” Victor said, his tone casual, almost bored. “You claimed I violated the treaty. Well, I’m here. Speak.”
“You slaughtered twelve of my men at the docks three nights ago!” Moretti barked, his face reddening with anger. “You seized four million dollars worth of European cargo! The treaty says all port operations are shared!”
“The treaty says port operations are shared among *allies*,” Victor answered, his voice dropping into that chilling, authoritative register that commanded absolute silence. “It does not protect rats who send hit squads into my home to murder a five-year-old child.”
Murmurs erupted among the elder council members. Old Don Falcone, the patriarch of the Chicago families, stepped forward, his bushy white eyebrows knitting together in disgust.
“Is this true, Moretti?” Falcone demanded. “You targeted Rossi’s son? You brought violence against a child under our code?”
“He’s lying!” Moretti yelled, sweat beading on his forehead. “The hit was on Rossi! The boy wasn't supposed to be there!”
“You sent a secondary squad to my safehouse in Lake Geneva,” Victor continued smoothly, pulling a sleek silver USB drive from his tuxedo pocket and tossing it at Falcone’s feet. “On that drive are the bank transfers from your shell companies to Julian Vincenzo. Along with the audio recordings of your commanders confirming the order to eliminate anyone inside that house. Including my son.”
Falcone picked up the drive, his face darkening with fury. In the old-world syndicate code, harming children was an unforgivable sin—a death sentence.
“You have disgraced the families, Lucian,” Falcone said coldly. “The council withdraws its protection.”
Moretti’s eyes went wild with panic. He knew what that meant. Without the council’s protection, Victor Rossi was legally permitted to erase him from the map.
“No!” Moretti shouted. In a flash of pure desperation, he whipped a snub-nosed revolver from his waistband, pointing it directly at Victor’s chest. “If I burn, you burn with me, Rossi!”
Screams tore through the ballroom as guests scrambled for cover.
Before Moretti could pull the trigger, Victor moved.
He didn't draw a gun. He shoved me behind his broad back, closed the distance between him and Moretti in a blinding blur, grabbed Moretti’s wrist, and twisted it with a sickening *crack*.
Moretti shrieked in agony as the gun clattered to the marble floor.
Victor swept Moretti’s legs out from beneath him, slamming the older man face-first onto the polished stone, pinning him down with a heavy knee pressed directly into the center of his spine.
Victor reached into his jacket, pulled his sleek black pistol, and pressed the cold muzzle against the back of Moretti’s head.
The room was utterly, terrifyingly silent.
“Victor,” I whispered from behind him, my heart hammering in my throat.
Victor froze. He didn't pull the trigger.
Slowly, deliberately, he looked up from Moretti’s squirming form and met my eyes. He saw the plea in my gaze—not a plea to spare a monster, but a plea not to lose himself to the darkness in front of the whole world.
Victor exhaled slowly. He clicked the safety back onto his weapon and stood up.
“Take him away,” Victor told Falcone’s enforcers. “He leaves Chicago tonight, or he leaves in a pine box.”
Victor turned back to me. His tuxedo was immaculate, his breathing steady. He offered me his arm once more.
May you like
“Let’s go home, Harper,” he said softly. “Our son is waiting.”
***