Chapter 5 - The Trap at Blackwood Manor
The next evening, the grand hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was transformed into a glittering palace of dark luxury.
Gold chandeliers illuminated the marble arches, reflection pools shimmered under crystal lights, and the heavy melody of a live string quartet filled the air. High society elite, corrupt billionaires, and underworld lords walked the floor in tailored tuxedos and designer gowns, sipping vintage champagne.
Among them stood Marcus Blake, looking polished and confident as he conversed with Don Moretti—a ruthless, silver-haired man in his sixties who ruled the south syndicate.
“The FBI is setting up perimeter surveillance,” Marcus whispered to Moretti, taking a glass from a passing waiter. “The moment Viscari shows his face, they’ll arrest him for the Queens shootout.”
“He won't show,” Moretti sneered, swirling his drink. “Viscari is smart. He knows he’s cornered. The girl is probably already dead in a ditch—”
The music suddenly cut off.
A hush fell over the three hundred guests near the grand staircase.
Standing at the top of the marble steps was Adrien Viscari.
He was dressed in an understated, perfectly tailored double-breasted black tuxedo. His hair was slicked back, his jaw sharp, exuding an aura of absolute, terrifying royalty.
But what stole the breath from every person in the room was the woman on his arm.
I walked beside him in a breathtaking dress of midnight-blue velvet that draped elegantly over my body, hiding my bandages while hugging my curves. Around my neck rested a vintage platinum necklace dripping with sapphire diamonds—a Viscari family heirloom. But on my left ring finger burned an enormous, flawless black diamond ring that caught the light of every chandelier.
I held my head high, my posture regal, my bare feet from two nights ago now encased in silk heels. I wasn't the broken, bleeding girl who had stumbled into The Velvet Crown.
I was Lena Vance Viscari.
Marcus dropped his champagne glass. The crystal shattered loudly against the marble floor, but no one looked at him. Every eye was locked on us as Adrien led me down the stairs with slow, deliberate grace.
“Look at him, Lena,” Adrien murmured softly beside me, his hand warm and steady over mine. “He’s shaking.”
“Let him shake,” I replied coolly, meeting Marcus’s horrified gaze across the room. “He hasn't seen the best part yet.”
As we reached the bottom of the stairs, Don Moretti and Marcus blocked our path, flanked by four discreetly armed bodyguards.
“Viscari,” Moretti barked, his voice laced with venom. “You have nerve bringing a kidnapped witness into a room full of federal prosecutors.”
“Careful with your tongue, Moretti,” Adrien replied softly, his voice carrying a chilling edge that made the surrounding crowd step back. “You are speaking to my fiancée.”
Gasps echoed through the ballroom.
“Fiancée?!” Marcus shrieked, losing his composure completely. “She’s insane! She’s under my legal protection! She doesn't even know who she is!”
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“I know exactly who I am, Marcus,” I said, stepping forward out from behind Adrien. My voice rang out clear, strong, and loud enough for every judge and reporter in the room to hear. “I am the daughter of Evelyn Vance. And I think it’s time everyone in this room knew what happened to my mother’s ledger.”
Moretti’s face drained of every ounce of color.
