Chapter 5 - A Father’s Debt Paid in LeadAt 11:45 PM, the grand ballroom of the Moretti stronghold was ablaze with three massive crystal chandeliers, filled with forty syndicate capos, port commissioners, and city judges drinking vintage scotch and laughing over the impending maritime merger.
Standing near the raised marble dais, dressed in an exquisite emerald satin gown with raw diamonds coiling around her throat, was Bianca Sterling.
Her porcelain smile was radiant, her champagne flute raised as she laughed with two high-ranking city aldermen. Her father, Judge Marcus Sterling—a tall, silver-haired man of sixty-four in a bespoke dinner suit with an eight-thousand-dollar silk bowtie—stood beside her, checking his antique gold pocket watch with quiet, nervous calculation.
The heavy double mahogany doors at the back of the ballroom swung open.
Not with a crash.
Just the sharp, clean release of an iron latch that cut through the jazz quartet’s music like a straight razor.
The ballroom fell into an immediate, breathless hush.
I walked down the grand center aisle.
I wore my bespoke black three-piece tuxedo, my cuffs immaculate, my presence commanding such absolute, terrifying authority that every capo along the aisle stood to his feet in unison.
And walking beside me, holding my hand with calm, unyielding dignity, was Maria, dressed in an elegant gown of dark navy wool with diamond pearl combs pinned into her hair.
Bianca’s champagne flute froze halfway to her lips.
Her pale blue eyes narrowed in sudden, venomous confusion.
The housekeeper was supposed to be in the scullery scrubbing pans. She was supposed to be trembling in the basement, terrified of being dismissed into the winter blizzard.
Instead, the maid was walking beside the Sovereign of Chicago, entering the high council room like an empress.
Judge Sterling’s smile tightened at the corners, a cold flicker of unease passing across his brow.
I stopped three paces from the head of the dais.
I did not look at the aldermen. I did not look at the guests.
I looked directly into the eyes of my bride-to-be.
“Bianca,” I said softly.
The word was quiet, smooth as polished slate, yet it made the crystal pendants overhead vibrate faintly.
“Alessandro, darling!” Bianca purred, forcing a light, musical laugh as she stepped forward. “We were beginning to wonder if the snow had kept you in your study! The commissioners are waiting for the midnight alliance toast!”
I did not raise a glass.
I reached into my pocket, withdrew the obsidian king from my brother’s chess set, and set it down onto the white damask tablecloth directly in front of Judge Sterling’s plate.
Thud.
The volcanic stone sat heavy and dark against the porcelain.
Beside it, I laid the tiny cylindrical titanium beacon with its severed red antenna.
Judge Sterling went completely rigid.
All the color drained from the judge’s face, leaving his skin the shade of sour milk beneath his silver hair.
“Do you recognize the machining on this capsule, Judge Sterling?” I asked, my voice quiet enough that every capo along the thirty-foot table leaned forward in silence.
May you like
Bianca’s hand dropped limp to her side.
The champagne flute slipped from her fingers, shattering against the parquet floor, golden wine splashing across the hem of her emerald gown.
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