Chapter 12 - The Senator’s Gala of Treason
The Great Hall erupted into pandemonium.
Socialites shrieked, backing away from the dais as fifty heavily armed tactical
police officers swarmed the platform, their carbines raised, cutting off every
escape route.
Senator Castiglione turned to run toward the private executive corridors behind
the tapestry, but Stefano Varga stepped out from the shadows, blocking the
doorway with his massive frame, a grim smile touching his lips.
Bianca collapsed onto the marble steps of the podium, her manicured fingers
clawing frantically at the hem of my black silk gown.
“Gina! Please!” Bianca wept, tears of pure, humiliating terror blackening her
mascara, stripping away every shred of her aristocratic arrogance. “Tell them
you made a mistake! Tell them the files are forged! I can give you millions! My
father can make your brother a diplomat! Anything you want!”
I looked down at the woman who had dug her nails into my chin three days ago,
the woman who had ordered my brother sold into slavery, the woman who had tried
to dump a sacred urn into the mud.
I reached up, touching the red coral rose resting against my collarbone.
“My brother doesn't need your blood money, Bianca,” I said, my voice quiet,
steady, and completely devoid of pity. “He is already free. And you are going to
spend the rest of your life in a concrete cell, remembering Donna Camilla’s
name.”
General Rossi clamped heavy steel handcuffs around Bianca’s slender wrists,
hauling her to her feet with clinical detachment.
Senator Castiglione was pinned against the marble wall, stripped of his
senatorial sash, his wrists bound in heavy plastic ties, as flashbulbs from news
photographers—tipped off by Stefano an hour prior—exploded in a blinding storm
of white light.
The Castiglione empire had fallen before the entire nation.
Matteo stood in the center of the hall, watching the traitors being dragged away
in chains, his dark eyes watching their departure with a quiet, solemn finality.
The debt was paid. The truth had won.
He turned his head slowly, looking at me.
The icy hardness that had terrified Italy for a decade melted into a
breathtaking, unguarded warmth that made my heart swell with an emotion I could
no longer deny.
He walked over to me, took both of my trembling hands into his large, warm
palms, and raised them to his lips, kissing my knuckles before the entire
assembly of Rome.
May you like
“It’s over, Gina,” Matteo whispered, his voice thick with an emotion that
belonged only to us. “Let’s go home to Sicily.”
