Chapter 7 - The Syndicate Summit
The Grand Ballroom of the Hayes Estate had not been opened in five years. Its towering crystal chandeliers, velvet-draped windows, and gilded moldings screamed old-world mafia elegance.
Around the massive circular mahogany table sat six men—the elders of the Chicago Syndicate. They were old, wealthy, and ruthless, their eyes sharp with predatory hunger as Victor walked into the room.
And right beside him, wearing a bespoke midnight-blue silk dress that commanded absolute attention, walked me.
A murmur rippled through the table. Don Salvatore, the oldest and most vicious of the council members, leaned back in his chair, a slow, mocking smile spreading across his wrinkled face.
"Well, well, Victor," Salvatore rasped, his voice like grinding stones. "Word on the street was that you were bleeding out on a sofa, half-dead. Yet you bring a little cleaning girl to a syndicate summit? Have you lost your mind?"
The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
Victor didn't flinch. He pulled out the high-backed leather chair at the head of the table, gestured gracefully for me to sit, and then took his own seat beside me, resting his hand casually on the armrest just inches from mine.
"Elena is no longer a maid, Salvatore," Victor said, his voice smooth, cold, and utterly lethal. "She is my partner. And she has more backbone in her pinky finger than everyone sitting at this table combined."
Salvatore slammed his palm onto the table, rattling the crystal water glasses. "This is an insult! You’re putting your empire at risk over a stray girl you picked up off the floor? We came here to discuss the North Side shipping routes, not host a charity case!"
Before Salvatore could finish his sentence, the heavy doors behind him burst open.
Four of Victor's elite enforcers marched into the room, dumping heavy leather briefcases right onto the center of the table. The briefcases popped open, spilling out stacks of financial records, offshore bank account numbers, and photographic evidence of Salvatore’s secret dealings with the rival New York mob.
Salvatore’s face drained of all color in an instant.
Victor leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, his dark eyes locked entirely on the terrified elder.
"You thought I was weak because I was injured," Victor whispered, the room falling into a dead, suffocating silence. "You thought you could buy off my guards and slip a bullet into my shoulder. But while you were planning your little coup, Elena was sleeping peacefully on my chest—and my people were tracing every single penny of your betrayal."
Salvatore swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he reached for his water glass. "Victor... let's talk about this. We’re family—"
"Family doesn't shoot at my house," Victor interrupted coldly. He stood up, towering over the table like a executioner. "Effective immediately, Salvatore is stripped of all territory, all assets, and all titles. Paul, escort him out. Permanently."
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As Salvatore was dragged screaming from the ballroom, the remaining elders sat in frozen, absolute terror, staring at Victor as if he were a god of death.
And sitting right beside him, I realized with a sudden, thrilling jolt of adrenaline: I wasn't the scared maid anymore. I was the queen of the underworld's most dangerous man.
