Chapter 11 - The Traitor’s Price
The ballroom on the fourth floor of the Union Club descended into an icy paralysis. Dmitry Petrov was pinned to the table, sobbing in agony as blood seeped into the grain of the historic wood. The Russian bodyguards stood frozen, the red dots of Hale’s laser sights burning into their foreheads.
Don Salvatore Moretti grabbed the black flash drive with shaking hands, his eyes darting frantically between Clara and the bleeding Russian.
“Julian,” Vincent commanded without raising his voice. “Bring the laptop.”
Julian stepped forward, setting a rugged tactical laptop on the table before Moretti and inserting the flash drive. Within seconds, bank routing numbers, Swiss account ledgers, and audio recordings of Viktor Petrov arranging the Miami hit on Moretti’s son played through the speakers.
*“Once Hale and Voss butcher each other,”* Viktor Petrov’s recorded voice purred through the laptop, *“Moretti will be unprotected. Take the boy out in Miami. We take Chicago and Florida in one sweep.”*
Salvatore Moretti’s face contorted into pure, murderous fury. He stood up, kicking his chair back, and looked down at Dmitry Petrov with absolute hatred.
“You Russian bastards,” Moretti snarled. “You sat at my dinner table! You drank my wine!”
“Now you see why I called this summit, Moretti,” Vincent said coldly, holstering his smoking pistol. “The Voss family didn't just betray me. They sold out the entire Commission to the Bratva. And if my wife had not uncovered these files in Marcus Voss’s private briefcase last night, your son would be floating in Biscayne Bay by New Year’s Eve.”
Moretti turned slowly toward Clara. The arrogance and disdain that had filled the older Don’s eyes ten minutes earlier had vanished, replaced by profound, unadulterated respect.
In the underworld, bloodlines and pedigree meant nothing compared to survival and intelligence. Clara Ellis had just saved Moretti’s legacy.
Moretti bowed his head slightly toward Clara—a gesture of submission from an Italian Don that was practically unheard of.
“Donna Clara,” Moretti said, his voice rough with emotion. “I owe you my son’s life. The Moretti family will never forget this debt.”
Clara maintained her regal posture, her eyes steady. “Then honor the debt, Don Moretti. Reaffirm your allegiance to my husband, and cut all ties with the Russian syndicate immediately.”
Moretti didn't hesitate. He pulled out his own gold-plated Beretta, pointed it at Dmitry Petrov’s head, and looked at Vincent.
“What is your command, Don Vincent?” Moretti asked.
Vincent placed his hand back on Clara’s shoulder, lightly brushing her emerald velvet gown.
“Clara,” Vincent asked softly, his voice meant for the entire room to hear. “What should we do with Petrov’s brother?”
The entire room held its breath. Vincent Hale, the undisputed king of the Midwest underworld, was publicly delegating the execution of an enemy lord to his new bride. It was the ultimate display of power and absolute trust.
Clara looked at Dmitry Petrov, whose face was twisted with pain and terror. She was not a cold-blooded killer; she was a woman raised with morals and grace. But she had also learned that mercy in this world was often an invitation for slaughter.
“Send him back to New York alive,” Clara answered calmly.
Dmitry let out a ragged, gasping breath of relief.
“Send him back,” Clara continued, her hazel eyes turning like flint, “with his right hand amputated. The hand he used to sign the contract on Don Moretti’s son, and the hand he raised against the Hale Syndicate. Let Viktor Petrov look upon his brother’s stump and know what happens when he reaches into Chicago.”
A low murmur of shock and awe rippled through the allied lieutenants along the perimeter.
Vincent looked down at Clara, his dark eyes ablaze with fierce, intoxicating admiration. She was not merely a gentle beauty who could comfort his son and bake his mother’s cookies; she possessed the iron soul of a true Mafia Queen.
“You heard my wife,” Vincent commanded. “Take him to the basement. Call Dr. Bennett to ensure he survives the amputation. Then put him on the first flight to JFK.”
Two Hale enforcers dragged the screaming Russian out of the room, leaving a trail of crimson across the parquet floor.
Vincent leaned down, his lips brushing Clara’s ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine.
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“Magnificent,” Vincent whispered, his breath warm against her skin. “You were born for this throne, Clara.”
***