Chapter 8 - The Gala at the Penthouse
The panic in the armory was instantaneous and suffocating.
"Move!" Dominic roared, already drawing his weapon and lunging for the staircase.
Nolan and four armed operators sprinted behind him, tactical boots hammering against the concrete. I ignored the searing agony in my healing shoulder, drawing my pistol and rushing after them into the subterranean labyrinth beneath Blackthorne House.
The corridors leading to the wine cellar were pitch black, the emergency backup lighting humming faintly in eerie crimson pulses.
"Check your corners!" Dominic barked, moving with terrifying speed and precision.
We rounded the final turn into the vaulted cellar. The heavy reinforced steel door of the security shelter hung slightly ajar, its electronic keypad smashed with a heavy blunt instrument, sparks crackling in the darkness.
"No, no, no..." Dominic whispered, a sound of pure paternal terror breaking through his iron composure.
He kicked the vault door wide.
Inside, two of his elite guards lay unconscious on the floor, zip-tied and gagged, but alive.
The bunker was empty.
Caleb was gone.
Pinned to the steel wall with a combat knife was a single sheet of paper with handwritten text:
*If you want the boy alive, come alone to the Mercer Grand Gala tonight at the St. Regis Penthouse. Don't bring your army, Dominic. Bring Elena. If I see a single sniper on an adjacent roof, Caleb takes a long walk off the balcony.*
Dominic dropped his weapon to his side, his hands trembling violently. He stared at the empty cot where his son had been sleeping minutes before, the veins on his neck bulging with suppressed fury.
"Who did this?" Dominic whispered, his voice dangerously low. "Who had the access codes?"
Nolan knelt beside one of the groggy guards, ripping the tape off his mouth.
"It was Marcus," the guard wheezed, coughing up blood. "Marcus from the perimeter team. He pulled a gun on us... said his family was being held hostage... they had the override key from the master console..."
"Marcus," Dominic repeated. The name sounded like an execution sentence. He turned slowly, his dark eyes landing on me. There was no hesitation in his gaze now, no conflict. Only absolute, apocalyptic resolve.
"The St. Regis Penthouse," Dominic said, his voice flat and dead. "The annual winter gala for the East Coast Consortium. Every major player, politician, and syndicate boss will be in that room tonight."
"It's a trap," I said, stepping forward. "Lucian wants to execute you publicly. In front of the entire underworld. He wants to take New York the same way he tried to take Boston—by severing the head of the snake in front of everyone."
"I know," Dominic replied coldly. He reached out and snatched the combat knife from the wall, sliding it effortlessly into his boot sheath. "He thinks he's the apex predator in this city. He thinks using my son gives him leverage."
Dominic walked toward me, stopping inches from my face. He reached out and gripped the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me close until his dark eyes consumed my entire field of vision.
"You spent eight years running from him, Elena," Dominic whispered, his breath hot against my cheek. "Tonight, you stop running. You put on the finest dress in this house, you stand beside me as my equal, and we walk into the lion's den together."
"And if we fail?" I asked, my heart hammering against my chest. "If he kills Caleb before we can reach him?"
"We won't fail," Dominic promised, his eyes burning with an unholy fire. "Because if Caleb dies tonight, I will burn this entire city to the waterline, and Lucian Vance will be the first thing I throw into the furnace."
Two hours later, the transformation was complete.
The tactical gear was gone. In its place, I wore an emerald-green silk evening gown with an open back that miraculously concealed the tight compression bandages around my ribs and shoulder. A diamond choker rested against my throat, hiding the faint bruises from the past three days. My dark hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, and strapped to the inside of my right thigh beneath the heavy slit of the gown was a ceramic, non-metallic blade.
Dominic stood by the elevator in a bespoke midnight-black tuxedo, looking every inch the billionaire kingpin whose wealth masked a monster.
He offered me his arm.
"Ready, Mrs. Vance?" he asked with dark irony.
I slid my hand into the crook of his arm, feeling the coiled, lethal power beneath his tailored jacket.
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"My name is Mara Ellis," I said coldly. "And I'm going to kill him."
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