Chapter 3 - THE BLOODLINE DINNER AT THE GILDED CAGEThe private dining room at Le Mirage—a Michelin-starred French restaurant in Midtown—was reserved exclusively for the heads of New York’s five major families and their inner circles. Tonight, however, the heavy oak doors were guarded not by local security, but by Belvin Santoro’s personal enforcement squad.
And standing right beside Belvin at the head of the mahogany table, wearing a custom midnight-blue silk dress that cost more than her former annual salary, was Naomi Rivers.
She felt like a lamb thrown into a den of wolves. Every pair of eyes around the table—old men with silver hair, cold eyes, and hands stained with decades of illegal enterprise—was fixed on her.
"A waitress," murmured Don Salvatore Moretti, an elderly patriarch from Little Italy, swirling his red wine with a scarred hand. "Belvin, you bring a domestic worker to a council of the commission? Have you lost your mind, or are you mocking us?"
Belvin didn't flinch. He picked up his crystal glass, took a slow sip, and set it down with a sharp clink.
"Salvatore, your grandson was recently arrested for running a counterfeit pharmaceutical ring in Queens because he lacks the brains to hide his tracks," Belvin said, his voice dripping with icy contempt. "Do not lecture me on who belongs at my table. Naomi saved Corso Ristorante from turning into a federal crime scene when your associate's nephew lost his temper."
Vincenzo Gallo sat three seats down, his face pale and stiff from the night before, though he tried to mask his hatred behind a tight, thin-lipped smile. "She’s a stray dog handler, Belvin. Nothing more. Bringing her here is an insult to the traditions of this board."
"Traditions," Belvin repeated, leaning back in his chair. "Let’s talk about traditions. Vincenzo, your nephew threw a glass in a public restaurant, violating the peace treaty we signed three years ago. And then you trespass in my private residence to threaten someone under my roof."
The table went dead silent. Even the waiters at the edges of the room stopped breathing.
Vincenzo slammed his palm against the table. "You call me a trespasser based on the word of a nobody from Queens? You’ve gone soft, Santoro! You’re letting a stray animal and a peasant dictate how you run your business!"
Before Vincenzo could draw another breath, the heavy oak doors of the private dining room swung open.
A low, collective gasp echoed around the table.
Titan walked into the room. He wasn't on a leash. He didn't need one. He walked with absolute, unbothered authority, his dark eyes sweeping over the terrified faces of the most powerful crime lords in America, before trotting straight to Naomi’s side and sitting down right on the edge of her silk dress.
Several elderly bosses instinctively pushed their chairs back, reaching toward their jacket interiors where concealed shoulder holsters rested.
"Don't," Belvin said, his hand resting casually on the table, though his fingers tapped a lethal rhythm against the wood. "If any of you so much as twitch toward a weapon, Titan won't stop at Gallo's arm this time."
Naomi kept her hand resting gently on Titan's head, feeling the powerful muscles beneath her palm. She looked directly across the table at Vincenzo Gallo.
"Mr. Gallo," Naomi said, her voice clear, calm, and carrying across the entire room. "You talk about traditions and respect. But a real man doesn't send threats to an empty apartment, and he certainly doesn't blame a dog for his own nephew's lack of discipline."
Vincenzo’s face twisted into an ugly snarl. "You smart-mouthed little bitch—"
"Enough," Belvin commanded, standing up so abruptly that his heavy mahogany chair scraped loudly against the floor.
The entire room froze. The aura of absolute dominance radiating from Belvin Santoro filled every inch of the space.
"Here is how this council session ends," Belvin said, looking around the table at every single syndicate leader. "Vincenzo, you will pay a fifty-thousand-dollar restitution fee to Corso Ristorante for the property damage your nephew caused, payable by midnight. And you will never, under any circumstances, approach Miss Rivers or anyone under my protection again."
"And if I refuse?" Vincenzo hissed, standing up to match Belvin's height.
Belvin smiled. It was a cold, humorless smile that reached nowhere near his eyes.
"Then Titan stays here. And I let him off his leash."
Vincenzo looked down at the massive pit bull, whose lips had curled back slightly to reveal razor-sharp white teeth as he let out a low, vibrating growl. The older man swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly before he forced them into his pockets.
"Fine," Vincenzo spat, turning sharply on his heel and storming out of the private dining room, slamming the heavy oak doors behind him.
The remaining bosses stared down at their plates, suddenly finding their wine glasses and silver forks intensely interesting.
May you like
Belvin looked down at Naomi, softening his gaze just a fraction. "Shall we finish dinner, Miss Rivers?"
As Naomi nodded, feeling the eyes of the underworld fixed on her with a mixture of terror and grudging awe, she realized there was no going back to Queens. She was part of their world now.
