Chapter 4 - POISON IN THE WINEThe string quartet played a frantic Vivaldi concerto as waiters moved through the crowd bearing crystal flutes of vintage champagne. Vance led us to the VIP table at the center of the dais, right beneath the massive crystal chandelier—a tactical nightmare of a position with zero cover and eyes from every corner of the room.
"To new alliances," Vance said, lifting his glass as we sat. His eyes locked onto Clara with predatory intensity. "And to secrets buried deep where nobody can ever dig them up."
Clara raised her flute, her fingers steady against the stem. "Some secrets are meant to be unearthed, Victor. Especially the ones buried in underground poker dens."
The table went dead silent. The fork in Vance’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. The air pressure in the room dropped so sharply my ears popped.
Vance slowly lowered his glass, his gray eyes turning into chips of arctic ice. "Is that so, Mrs. Moretti? And what would a delicate flower like you know about underground poker dens?"
Before I could intervene, Clara set her champagne glass down with a sharp clink that echoed like a gunshot.
"I know that people who cheat desperate kids out of half a million dollars usually find themselves playing a much more dangerous game," Clara whispered, leaning forward into his personal space. "And I know that men who use debt as a leash usually end up hanging from it."
Vance’s face contorted into an ugly, mask-like snarl. He snapped his fingers, and instantly, four armed guards in black tactical suits materialized from the shadows around our table, their hands hovering over their concealed sidearms.
"You talk entirely too much for a dead woman," Vance hissed, signaling his men.
At that exact second, Mateo and six of my elite enforcers stepped out from behind the velvet drapes, their submachine guns locked dead on Vance’s chest.
The entire ballroom erupted into screams. High-society socialites dropped their champagne glasses, scattering like panicked mice toward the exits.
"You think I came here unprepared, Vance?" I asked, my voice cutting through the chaos like a razor blade. I drew my custom Beretta, resting it casually on the white tablecloth, aimed straight between Vance's eyes. "You invited a Moretti into your house. You should have checked her background a little closer."
Vance laughed, a manic, desperate sound. He didn't look at my gun; he looked at Clara.
"You think you won?" Vance sneered, blood dripping from his lip where he’d bitten it too hard. "Check your phone, Moretti."
My pocket buzzed. I pulled out my encrypted burner phone with my left hand while keeping my gun steady.
A single video file was playing on the screen.
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It showed Leo—Clara’s younger brother—tied to a chair in a concrete basement, with a countdown timer flashing red in the corner. T-minus 15 minutes. And standing beside him with a detonator was a man wearing my own syndicate’s insignia.
Clara’s face went completely, terrifyingly white.
