Chapter 48 - THE UNINVITED GUEST
The brass-and-crystal elevator doors slid open on the fortieth floor of the Grand Plaza, spilling us directly into the lion's den.
The ballroom was magnificent. Classical violin music drifted through the air, crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across hundreds of men and women dressed in black tie, sipping champagne, laughing as if billions in blood money were nothing more than trade stocks.
At the far end of the room, on a raised marble dais beneath a massive oil painting of Daniel Bennett, stood Francesca.
She was radiant, clad in a crimson gown that looked like spilled wine, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves around her diamond-collared neck. Surrounding her were the six surviving syndicate bosses of the Eastern Families, including old Don Moretti, whose trembling hands rested on the silver handle of his walking cane.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Commission," Francesca’s amplified voice rang out, silencing the room. "With the tragic demise of Salvatore, and the untimely passing of Vincent Bennett in this morning’s unfortunate car accident—"
"Reports of my death," Vincent’s voice cut through the ballroom like an executioner's blade, "have been greatly exaggerated."
The violin music crashed to an abrupt, jarring halt.
Two hundred heads whipped around in unison.
Vincent walked down the center aisle of the ballroom, his black coat unbuttoned, his hands casually in his pockets. To his left marched Marco, glaring with homicidal intent. And to his right, walking with her head held high, was me.
Gasps rippled through the gathered elite.
Francesca’s face instantly drained of color, her wine glass slipping from her fingers and shattering violently against the white marble floor. "Vincent...? You're impossible! You were on that road—!"
"You sent two amateurs with shrapnel bombs to do a man's job, Francesca," Vincent said, his voice quiet, calm, carrying with terrifying authority across the dead-silent hall. "And in doing so, you broke the first law of the Commission: you attempted to assassinate a Don's family without a sanctioned blood duel."
"Don't listen to him!" Francesca shrieked, backing toward Don Moretti and the dais. "Guards! Kill them! They're trespassers!"
A dozen armed men in black suits reached for their jackets.
*Click. Click. Click.*
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Around the perimeter of the room, thirty waitstaff, bartenders, and security guards smoothly drew silenced pistols from beneath their aprons and blazers, aiming them squarely at the backs of Francesca’s loyalists' heads.
Vincent smiled—a cold, terrifying baring of teeth. "Did you really think you owned this hotel, Francesca? Daniel built it. My men have worked this room since we were boys."
