Chapter 2 - Seven Grams of LeadThe ballroom of the Aster Crown Hotel glittered like a frozen galaxy. Two hundred elites—judges, developers, politicians, and syndicate capos—laughed beneath cascading crystal while a string quartet played a melancholic Vivaldi piece near the marble staircase.
Clara balanced a silver tray loaded with flutes of vintage champagne, her feet throbbing in shoes that were two sizes too small. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, eager to finish her shift, collect her four hundred dollars, and rush to the Cleveland clinic where her mother’s heart monitor beeped in a sterile white room.
"Watch the step, sweetheart," a deep, gravelly voice muttered nearby.
Clara glanced up, startled. Standing by the pillar was a broad-shouldered man in a midnight tuxedo whose severe, unsmiling face radiated an aura of absolute dominance. He didn't look like a politician or a banker. He looked like an executioner who had dressed up for a funeral.
Before Clara could form an apology, a sharp flash of silver caught her eye from the shadows of the service corridor.
A man in a matching black catering jacket was slipping through the crowd. His right hand was buried deep inside his coat, and his eyes weren't looking at the champagne glasses or the dancing couples. They were locked squarely on Isabella Rossi, Dominic’s elderly mother, who was laughing gently with a federal judge near the center of the room.
The barrel of a silenced pistol slid into view.
Time fractured.
Clara didn't think about her rent. She didn't think about her mother. She didn't think about the fact that she was an exhausted waitress making minimum wage.
With a frantic cry of "Get down!", she hurled her heavy silver tray straight at the assassin's face and threw herself forward, tackling Isabella Rossi hard to the marble floor just as the first shot shattered the ceiling above them.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The air filled with the deafening roar of gunfire and the high, terrified screams of wealthy patrons diving for cover.
Clara felt a sudden, brutal impact to her back—like a sledgehammer swinging with the force of a freight train. Then a second blow. Then a third.
Warm, dark liquid began to pool beneath her uniform, soaking through the black fabric and spreading across the pristine white marble. The ringing in her ears drowned out the chaos of the room. As she pressed Isabella down to protect her, a fourth and fifth bullet tore through her flesh, stealing the breath completely from her lungs.
Through a blur of tears and searing, white-hot agony, she saw Dominic Rossi appear above her like a dark angel descending into hell. His face was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated terror—an expression no enemy had ever lived long enough to witness.
"Mother?" Dominic choked out, dropping to his knees.
"I... I'm fine," Isabella gasped, shaking violently as she clutched Clara’s bloodstained arm. "Dominic... save her. She took the bullets for me."
Clara’s vision tunneled into a pinprick of dim light. Her lips parted, tasting the metallic copper of her own blood. She looked up at the terrifying mafia boss, her gray eyes clouding over.
"The... the lady..." Clara whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Dominic grabbed her face, his gloved hands instantly crimson. "Clara! Stay with me! Clara, look at me!"
"Is she... safe?" Clara managed to force out, a faint, tragic smile touching her pale lips.
"Yes," Dominic breathed, his chest heaving with a suffocating panic that made his veins turn to ice. "She’s safe."
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"Good..." Clara whispered.
And then her eyes slipped shut, her hand sliding off the marble floor as she went completely limp in a pool of her own blood.
