Chapter 47 - RETURN TO THE LION'S DEN
By nightfall, the flashing lights of Manhattan rose from the horizon like a mountain of diamonds and gold.
The Grand Plaza Hotel was a fortress. The private drive was cordoned off with black velvet ropes, guarded by dozens of private security operatives in sharp Italian suits with concealed submachine guns beneath their jackets. The world above knew this as a billionaire's winter charity gala, but in the private penthouse ballroom forty floors up, the true rulers of the underworld were gathering to divide Daniel Bennett's empire.
Inside an armored room in Vincent's private safehouse across the river, two stylists worked furiously around me.
The oversized wool sweater and snow-covered boots were stripped away, replaced by an emerald-green silk evening gown that hugged my post-partum curves with regal authority. Diamond studs were fastened to my ears, my dark hair swept up into an intricate, elegant chignon.
I looked in the mirror and barely recognized the frightened maid who used to scrub the marble stairs of the Bennett estate.
"You look like an empress," Vincent’s voice murmured behind me.
He stood in a tailored tuxedo, midnight black, his cufflinks glinting under the lights. His shoulder holster was hidden beneath his jacket, but the lethal edge in his posture was impossible to conceal.
Behind him, Marco was dressed identically, his bandaged arm resting stiffly at his side, his face impassive. Hope was safe in the adjoining panic room, guarded by six of Vincent’s most loyal soldiers and a private pediatric team.
"I don't feel like an empress," I confessed, my fingers trembling slightly as I smoothed the silk over my hips. "I feel like a sheep walking into a slaughterhouse."
Vincent stepped closer, his warm hands closing over my bare shoulders. His reflection met mine in the glass.
"A sheep doesn't survive Salvatore’s ambush," he said, his voice dropping into a low, commanding cadence. "A sheep doesn't cave a hitman’s skull in with an iron skillet to protect her child. You survived hell, Sarah. Tonight, you walk into that ballroom not as their maid, but as the master of the house. Daniel gave you everything. Now, we take it."
He reached into his pocket and placed a tiny, micro-thin silver drive—extracted from Hope's bracelet—into my palm.
"When we enter, Francesca will try to have us executed on the spot," Vincent continued coldly. "She has the council’s votes secured. But according to the Commission's ancient charter, any direct blood heir has the right to present evidence before the final gavel falls. You will walk straight to the podium. You will insert this drive into the main projector terminal."
"And if they draw their guns before I get there?"
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Vincent looked at Marco, then back at me.
"Then I will paint that ballroom red until not a single traitor is left standing."
