Chapter 6 - Fire and Rain
The grand ballroom of the St. Regis was a blinding display of wealth and shadow.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over three hundred guests in high-end tuxedos and ballgowns. But behind the laughter and champagne flutes lay an air of lethal paranoia. Armed guards stood quietly near every exit; dark eyes tracked every conversation.
When Salvo entered the ballroom with me on his arm, a collective hush swept through the crowd.
Whispers broke out among the rival mob bosses and socialites. Salvo Romano—a man who famously attended events alone and never brought women into public affairs—was holding my waist with a possessive, fierce grip that left no room for doubt.
At the far end of the ballroom, standing near a gold pillar with three heavy-set men, was Gaetano Valenti.
He was in his late thirties, with sharp, fox-like eyes, thin lips, and a cruel smile. When his gaze fell on Salvo—and then on me—his eyes narrowed.
Salvo led me straight across the dance floor toward him, the crowd parting before us like water before a bow of a warship.
“Salvo,” Gaetano sneered in heavily accented English, taking a sip from his wine glass. “I see you brought a lovely distraction tonight. I thought you only cared about ledgers and bloodlines.”
“I care about both, Gaetano,” Salvo replied calmly, his voice smooth and ice-cold. “Especially when people start trespassing on my docks.”
Gaetano chuckled, but his eyes were cold. He turned his gaze toward me, scanning my face with a unsettling, analytical stare.
“She looks familiar,” Gaetano muttered in the thick Palermitano dialect, speaking to the associate at his right shoulder. “Look at her nose, Marco. Look at her eyes. She looks like old Don Lorenzo’s daughter... the one who fled to America thirty years ago.”
The associate leaned in, replying in rapid, hushed Sicilian: “Impossible. Elena Bellini died in Queens years ago. We searched her apartment ourselves after we took care of her.”
My blood turned to pure ice.
They took care of her.
The phrase echoed in my brain like a thunderclap. They hadn't just watched my mother—they had taken her. They were the ones responsible for her disappearance five years ago.
A wave of pure, white-hot fury roared through my veins. My instinct was to scream, to tear at Gaetano’s throat with my nails. But my mother’s voice rang clear in my mind: “Keep your head, Clara. Anger makes men stupid.”
I didn't break. I didn't flinch. I kept my face as smooth as marble, looking straight through Gaetano as if I didn't understand a single word he had just whispered.
I leaned up, pressing my lips close to Salvo’s ear, smelling his cologne as I whispered in soft English: “The associate on his right... Marco. He just confessed. They took my mother five years ago. And Gaetano is suspecting who I am right now.”
Salvo’s entire frame went rigid as iron. His grip on my waist tightened instantly, shielding my body with his broad shoulder.
Before Salvo could speak, a sudden, high-pitched shatter rang out from the floor above us.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
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The glass skylight overhead exploded inward!
Automatic gunfire erupted through the ballroom, sending screaming guests diving beneath tables and behind marble pillars as high-caliber rounds tore through the crystal chandeliers!
