Chapter 5 - THE TRAITOR WITHIN"No," Clara breathed, her hands gripping the edge of the mahogany table so hard her knuckles turned translucent. "No, that’s impossible."
Vance’s manic laugh filled the ruined ballroom, echoing off the high vaulted ceilings as panicked guests trampled each other to escape the doors. "Did you really think you were the only one playing chess, Dante? Your own inner circle rot from the inside out. One of your capos sold you out to me weeks ago. He’s the one holding the trigger on the kid right now."
My blood ran cold. A mole. In my inner circle. Mateo’s eyes met mine across the table, wide with shock and fury.
"Name him," I snarled, slamming the barrel of my Beretta onto the table inches from Vance’s nose.
"Kill me, and the kid dies in ten minutes," Vance taunted, blood pooling in his teeth as he smiled a bloody, broken smile. "Let me walk out of here with your fake bride as collateral, and I’ll text you the coordinates and the name of your little rat."
Clara’s shock vanished in a single heartbeat, replaced by a cold, murderous rage that I had never seen on any human face before. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She slowly reached down, hiking up the slit of her emerald velvet gown.
Vance blinked, momentarily distracted. "What are you—"
With lightning speed, Clara yanked a custom micro-Uzi strapped to her thigh, leveling the barrel straight at Vance’s forehead before any of his guards could twitch.
"You talk too much," Clara whispered, her voice colder than liquid nitrogen.
"Wait!" I shouted, grabbing her arm. "If you kill him now, we lose the name of the mole!"
Clara looked at me, her dark eyes blazing with a terrifying fire. "I don't need his name, Dante. Look at the reflection in his expensive Rolex."
I snapped my gaze to Vance’s wrist. The polished gold bezel of his watch was catching the light of the chandelier, reflecting the panicked faces of my own enforcers standing behind us. And right there, standing in the back row with his hand subtly resting on a hidden radio transmitter, was Rocco—my most trusted logistics capo.
Rocco’s face drained of all color as he realized he’d been caught in a mirror.
"Rocco," I whispered, the betrayal hitting me like a physical blow.
Rocco didn’t hesitate. He drew his weapon, but Mateo was faster. A single deafening crack echoed through the ballroom, and Rocco dropped to the marble floor, a smoking hole between his eyes.
Vance stared at the dead traitor, his bravado finally shattering. "You... you tricked me."
"I told you," Clara said, her voice dropping into a lethal purr as she pressed the barrel harder against Vance's skull. "I manage live theater. I know how to stage a distraction."
With a swift, brutal flick of her emerald-clad heel, Clara kicked the table into Vance’s chest, sending him crashing backward over his chair. Mateo’s men swarmed the remaining bodyguards, disarming them in seconds.
I grabbed Clara by the waist, pulling her toward the private elevator. "Leo's location?" I demanded of the groaning Vance.
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"Dock 4... Warehouse B..." Vance choked out, clutching his bruised ribs.
We didn't wait to hear the rest. We ran.
