Chapter 10 - The Gala of Wolves
The air in the subterranean command center smelled of ozone, gunmetal, and
tension.
Bank upon bank of security monitors cast a cold blue glow over Lorenzo’s face.
On a stainless steel table in the center of the room sat a silver metal box
lined with ice.
Inside lay a severed human finger.
Around the knuckle sat the cheap gold wedding band I had bought Marcus at a pawn
shop seven years ago.
Beside the box was an encrypted flash drive.
Dante plugged the drive into the master terminal.
A video file opened automatically.
The screen flickered, revealing the bruised, bloody face of Marcus Dawson.
He was tied to a steel chair inside a dimly lit concrete basement.
His expensive clothes were torn to rags.
Standing behind him in the shadows was Salvatore Vance, holding a blood-stained
pair of industrial shears.
"Clara..." Marcus sobbed through broken teeth on the screen.
"Clara, please! For the love of God, help me!"
"Give Vance the access codes! Tell Lorenzo to release the offshore accounts!"
"He's going to kill me, Clara! He's going to cut me to pieces!"
Salvatore Vance stepped into the light, his cruel face filling the camera frame.
"A message for the happy couple," Vance sneered into the lens.
"Tomorrow night is the Annual Autumn Gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art."
"The entire Commission will be there. The mayor, the judges, the elite."
"Lorenzo, you bring Clara Dawson and her son to that gala."
"You publicly surrender the Brooklyn terminals back to me."
"Or Marcus Dawson dies on a live broadcast, and my sleepers in Manhattan will
detonate three dirty bombs across Midtown."
The video cut to static.
My stomach churned.
I grabbed the edge of the steel table to keep from collapsing.
Even after everything Marcus had done—even after he abandoned his own child to
die—seeing him butchered on screen made my blood run cold.
"Dirty bombs?" I gasped, looking at Lorenzo.
"Is Vance insane? He would kill thousands of innocent people!"
"Salvatore Vance is a cornered rat," Lorenzo said coldly.
His eyes were dead, reflecting the static on the screen.
"He knows the Commission voted him out."
"He knows his empire is collapsing."
"When rats realize they are drowning, they try to pull the entire ship down with
them."
"What do we do?" I asked, trembling.
"Do we go to the police? The FBI?"
Lorenzo let out a dark, hollow laugh.
"The FBI couldn't stop Vance's network before the first bomb went off," Lorenzo
said.
"This is our world, Clara. We settle it with our own laws."
He turned to Dante.
"Prepare the convoy for tomorrow night."
"We attend the Gala."
"Boss," Dante warned, his jaw tight.
"It's an obvious trap. Vance wants you in an open, public venue where your
personal security is restricted by museum protocols."
"I know it's a trap," Lorenzo replied.
"That is why we are going to spring it."
He looked at me, his gaze sweeping over my face with absolute certainty.
"Clara, you will be by my side."
"Leo will remain here, guarded by eighty of my best men."
"Tomorrow night, we end the Vance family forever."
Twenty-four hours later, the Metropolitan Museum of Art glowed under the
Manhattan night sky like an ancient temple.
Limousines and armored sedans lined Fifth Avenue for six blocks.
Paparazzi flashbulbs lit up the red carpet as billionaires, foreign diplomats,
and underworld royalty ascended the grand stone steps.
I stepped out of the Escalade, feeling Lorenzo’s strong arm encircle my waist.
I wore a breathtaking emerald-green backless gown of Italian silk, tailored to
perfection by Lorenzo’s personal designer.
A cascade of black diamonds rested against my collarbone.
My hair was swept up into an elegant chignon, revealing the sharp line of my
jaw.
Nobody looking at me tonight would ever guess that thirty-six hours ago, I was
scrubbing grease from the floor of a Tribeca diner.
Lorenzo looked like a god of war wrapped in bespoke black velvet.
His presence was magnetic, terrifying, and utterly commanding.
As we walked up the red carpet together, the cameras went into a frenzy.
Whispers erupted among the high-society crowd:
"Is that Lorenzo Moretti?"
"Who is that woman with him?"
"She looks like royalty..."
We entered the Temple of Dendur.
The massive glass walls overlooked Central Park, reflecting the shimmering
waters of the ancient indoor pool.
Hundreds of guests in tuxedos and couture gowns held champagne flutes,
pretending to be civilized while trading territory, drugs, and political power.
As we walked through the crowd, people parted like the Red Sea.
Billionaires bowed their heads.
Corrupt politicians offered nervous, deferential smiles.
Lorenzo acknowledged none of them.
His gray eyes swept the perimeter, tracking every exit, every security detail,
every shadow.
Then, the crowd shifted.
Salvatore Vance emerged from behind a row of ancient Egyptian columns.
He wore an immaculate white tuxedo, surrounded by six armed men in private
security uniforms.
In his hand, he held a glass of red wine.
"Don Moretti," Vance greeted, his voice dripping with false cheer.
"And the lovely Miss Dawson."
Vance looked me up and down, his green eyes flickering with a sickening
appetite.
"You clean up remarkably well for a six-dollar-an-hour waitress."
Lorenzo stepped slightly in front of me, his massive frame shielding half my
body.
"Where are the bombs, Salvatore?" Lorenzo demanded softly.
His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of an
executioner's axe.
Vance chuckled, swirling his wine.
"Always so direct, Lorenzo."
Vance leaned closer, whispering so only we could hear:
"The bombs aren't in Midtown, you arrogant fool."
"I lied on the video."
My heart violently seized.
Ice poured through my veins.
"What did you say?" I gasped, grabbing Lorenzo’s arm.
Salvatore’s sickening grin stretched across his entire face.
"The bombs are inside the transport vans parked right outside your fortress on
the Hudson, Moretti."
"My inside man just opened the back gates ten minutes ago."
Vance looked into my terrified eyes.
May you like
"Your little boy is going to burn to ash while you stand here in your emerald
dress."
