Chapter 6 - Blood on the Docks
Chaos erupted across the grand ballroom before Gabriel’s words could even fully register in Clara's mind.
"Treason!" roared Don Salvatore Marino, Isabella’s father, his face flushing a violent shade of purple as he slammed his champagne flute onto a nearby table, shattering crystal into a thousand tiny shards. Half a dozen Marino capos instantly drew their sidearms, aiming directly through the crowd toward Gabriel and Clara.
"Kill them! Kill them both!" Isabella shrieked, backing away as her veil caught on a chair, tearing the silk crown from her head.
The elegant engagement gala instantly transformed into an urban war zone. Crystal chandeliers rained glass as the first gunshots shattered the overhead fixtures, plunging sections of the ballroom into flickering shadows. Elite security guards from both syndicates drew weapons, turning the dance floor into a crossfire of lead and panic. High-society guests scrambled in terror, screaming and diving beneath mahogany banquet tables.
"Stay down!" Gabriel roared, his reflexes kicking in with lethal, terrifying speed.
Before Clara could process the unfolding bloodbath, Gabriel grabbed her waist, hoisting her behind a massive, reinforced marble pillar just as a volley of hollow-point bullets chewed through the plaster inches from their heads. Marcus was already returning fire across the room, his silenced automatic weapon barking rhythmically, dropping two Marino enforcers before they could clear the buffet.
"You absolute lunatic!" Clara yelled over the deafening roar of gunfire, clutching Gabriel’s lapel as glass rained down around them. "You just declared war on your own alliance!"
"The alliance was dead the second you walked through that door," Gabriel replied smoothly, his dark eyes unnervingly calm amid the flying bullets. He drew his own custom Sig Sauer P226 from his shoulder holster, checking the magazine with practiced ease. "Besides, I never planned on marrying Isabella anyway. She had terrible taste in coffee."
Despite the adrenaline pounding through her veins and the immediate threat of a gruesome death, a hysterical, breathless laugh escaped Clara’s lips. Even in the middle of a mafia shootout, Gabriel Costa was impossible to predict.
"The ledger is in my clutch," Clara shouted, pressing herself flat against the cold marble pillar. "If I die here, the dead-man's switch executes automatically in three minutes. Your entire syndicate goes up in federal flames!"
"Then it's a good thing," Gabriel whispered, leaning down and pressing a fierce, demanding kiss directly to her lips before she could protest—a kiss tasting of gunsmoke, adrenaline, and irreversible ruin—"neither of us is planning on dying tonight."
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Gabriel spun around the corner of the pillar, firing three rapid shots that neutralized the remaining Marino gunmen attempting to flank their position from the service corridor. He grabbed Clara’s hand with a grip of iron, dragging her through the smoke-filled kitchens toward the industrial loading docks at the rear of the Plaza Hotel.
Behind them, Don Salvatore Marino’s furious shouts echoed through the halls, punctuated by the heavy thud of reinforced boots giving chase. The war for the city had officially begun, and Clara, the humble executive assistant who had simply wanted to resign, was now holding the trigger to the entire underworld.
