Chapter 3 - THE LION’S DENThe flashbulbs of the paparazzi blinded us the moment our bulletproof Maybach pulled up to the curb of the Grand Horizon Ballroom. New York’s elite society reporters screamed our names, their flashes popping like rapid-fire gunshots.
“Mr. Moretti! Is it true you’ve secretly married? Who is she?”
I didn’t blink. I stepped out of the vehicle into the freezing night air, extending my hand. Clara placed her gloved hand in mine, sliding out with the effortless grace of a born queen. She didn't flinch at the cameras. She smiled—a radiant, warm, utterly convincing smile that made the gossip columnists swoon.
As we walked up the grand marble steps, I kept my hand low, resting firmly against the small of her back, feeling the steady, controlled rhythm of her breathing beneath the velvet.
"You look breathtaking," I murmured near her ear as we passed the heavy oak doors.
"Save the flattery for after we survive the handshake, darling," she whispered back, her smile never fading for the cameras.
The ballroom was a sea of glittering chandeliers, expensive champagne, and sharks wearing designer tuxedos. Every conversation hushed as we entered. Men with blood on their hands and politicians with stolen money in offshore accounts parted the sea for us, their eyes darting nervously toward my face before landing with intense curiosity on Clara.
And then, cutting through the crowd like a razor through silk, came Victor Vance.
He was older than I expected, with salt-and-pepper hair, cold gray eyes, and a smile that didn't reach his mouth. A diamond ring flashed on his left pinky—the universal signet of the Bratva’s American liaison.
"Dante," Vance purred, his voice smooth as oil. "And you must be the mysterious bride who finally tamed the beast of Manhattan. I'm Victor."
He reached out, his hand lingering inches from Clara’s.
Clara didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, slipping her hand into his grip with bone-crushing confidence, her smile dazzling and sharp enough to draw blood.
"Mr. Vance," she said, her voice clear and carrying across the silent room. "My husband has told me so much about your... unique business ventures. It’s an absolute thrill to finally meet the man everyone in the city whispers about when the lights go out."
Vance’s eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter. He applied pressure to her hand—a subtle power play designed to test her pain tolerance.
Clara didn't flinch. In fact, her smile widened, and she squeezed back just hard enough to make Vance's knuckles pop.
"Such a firm grip for a costumer," Vance murmured softly, testing the waters.
My hand twitched toward my jacket. Mateo shifted in the shadows behind us.
Clara didn’t miss a beat. She tilted her head, batting her eyelashes with theatrical innocence. "Oh, Mr. Vance. When you manage artists who throw temper tantrums on Broadway, you learn how to handle men who think they're running an empire."
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Vance went completely still. Then, slowly, a cold, dangerous chuckle rumbled in his chest.
"You have a fascinating wife, Dante," Vance said, turning his cold gray eyes onto me. "Let’s hope she’s strong enough to survive what’s coming next."
