Chapter 12 - THE MASQUERADE
The Metropolitan Club on East 60th Street was a masterpiece of Gilded Age opulence.
Marble arches, crystal chandeliers the size of small cars, and red velvet draperies that muffled the sound of the city outside.
At 1:00 AM, the grand ballroom was filled with two hundred of the most powerful people in the Western Hemisphere.
Billionaires, shipping magnates, corrupt politicians, and high-ranking syndicate capos.
They wore tailored tuxedos and designer gowns, sipping champagne while armed guards in black suits watched the doors.
I stepped through the bronze entrance doors, my arm looped through Dominic’s good right arm.
I wore a bespoke floor-length backless gown of midnight-black silk.
The fabric clung to every curve, elegant and dangerous.
Concealed beneath the high slit of my dress was a ceramic combat knife strapped to my inner thigh.
Dominic was magnificent.
He wore a custom black tuxedo that masked the bulk of his arm cast beneath an Italian wool cape draped over his left shoulder.
His hair was slicked back, his jaw clean-shaven, his gray eyes cutting through the crowd like searchlights.
Every eye in the room turned toward us.
A whisper rippled through the gathered elite.
“Dominic Russo is dead,” a shipping magnate muttered near the bar.
“He drowned in Brooklyn.”
“He doesn't look dead,” his companion murmured, stepping back.
Dominic didn't look at them.
He guided me across the marble dance floor toward the elevated stage at the end of the room.
On the stage sat a glass display case illuminated by recessed spotlights.
Inside rested the master ledger of the Harrison-Bianchi trust.
And standing beside the podium was Gabriel Bianchi, his face wrapped in white bandages from the fire in the Catskills.
Beside him stood Vincent.
Vincent wore an expensive tuxedo, but his face was bruised purple, his broken teeth replaced with temporary white caps.
When Vincent saw Dominic walking down the center aisle, his champagne flute slipped from his fingers.
The crystal shattered against the parquet floor.
“Dominic,” Vincent gasped.
The four guards at the stage perimeter reached into their jackets.
“Don’t touch those weapons, gentlemen,” Dominic’s voice rang out through the ballroom.
It was smooth, resonant, and utterly commanding.
The soft jazz music died instantly.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
“Every door to this club is surrounded by eighty federal marshals and four tactical SWAT units,” Dominic said calmly.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
“Agent Catherine Vance is currently broadcasting the contents of the Bianchi ledgers to eighteen news networks across the country.”
Panic erupted among the guests.
Women gasped; men in expensive suits began pushing toward the emergency exits.
Two federal agents in plainclothes stepped in front of the bronze double doors, locking them from the inside.
Gabriel Bianchi grabbed the microphone on the podium, his voice shaking with fury.
“Kill him!” Gabriel shrieked.
“Shoot him down right now!”
The two guards on the left drew their pistols.
I moved before they could clear their holsters.
I pulled the ceramic blade from my thigh strap and threw it with a sharp flick of my wrist.
The blade buried itself to the hilt in the nearest guard’s shoulder.
He dropped his gun with a scream.
Dominic stepped forward, using his heavy plaster cast like an iron club.
He smashed it across the second guard’s jaw with a sickening crack.
The man flew off the stage, unconscious before he hit the floor.
Vincent backed away toward the rear velvet curtains, his eyes wild with terror.
“Vincent!” Dominic roared.
Vincent turned and bolted through the backstage fire door.
Dominic grabbed my hand, pulling me onto the stage.
I smashed the glass display case with the base of a brass candlestick.
I lifted the original leather ledger from the velvet cushion.
“Take it,” Dominic said.
“It’s yours, Mia. It was always yours.”
“We’re not finished yet,” I said, looking toward the open fire door.
“He’s going to the roof,” Dominic said, his eyes darkening with cold purpose.
“The helipad.”
He turned to Leo, who had just kicked through the side service entrance holding a tactical shotgun.
“Leo! Secure Gabriel and the ledger!”
“On it, boss!” Leo barked, throwing Gabriel face-down onto the stage.
May you like
Dominic and I sprinted through the backstage corridor, our footsteps echoing up the iron service stairs.
The cold night air hit our faces as we burst onto the rooftop sixty stories above Manhattan.
