Chapter 3 - Locked in the Ivory Tower
Downstairs in the grand ballroom, the initial panic had soured into stifling, suffocating tension. Fifty armed Moretti soldiers stood guard along the perimeter, machine pistols drawn, their stony expressions leaving no room for negotiation. The elite of Chicago’s criminal and political aristocracy sat trapped at banquet tables, their cell phones stacked like dominos on silver trays.
In the corner near the velvet-draped bar, Vanessa paced like a caged leopard. Her silver designer gown shimmered beneath the lights, but her composure was unraveling at the seams.
“Father, do something!” she hissed under her breath, grabbing Richard Sterling’s lapel. “Call the commissioner! Call our security detail at the gate! Dante has completely lost his mind over that gutter tramp!”
Richard took a slow, heavy sip from his bourbon glass, though the liquid trembled against the crystal. “Shut your mouth, Vanessa. Look around you. The commissioner doesn't own this estate. Dante owns the commissioner, the mayor, and the ground we are standing on. If you open your mouth again, you will sign both our death warrants.”
“He has no proof!” she whispered fiercely, her eyes blazing with spite. “We buried that paper trail eight months ago! She was supposed to be dead in a ditch outside Gary, Indiana! Who knew that worthless driver would take the money and just dump her on a highway?”
“He has the original execution order,” Richard countered through gritted teeth. “And he has Marcus digging through the servers right now. If Dante figures out what we did with Luca’s old ledgers, a quick death will be a luxury we won't be afforded.”
Before Vanessa could respond, the grand double doors of the ballroom slammed open with the force of an artillery shell.
The room fell dead silent.
Dante stepped through the threshold. He had changed into an all-black suit, the crisp collar open at his throat, completely unarmored and completely terrifying. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, but the aura radiating from him caused even seasoned mob capos to avert their gazes.
Behind him marched Marcus, accompanied by four towering enforcers carrying heavy leather cases.
Dante walked slowly down the center aisle, his dress shoes clicking methodically against the marble floor. He stopped directly in front of the Sterling table, staring down at Vanessa with an expression of chilling tranquility.
“Dante, darling,” Vanessa started, forcing a bright, trembling smile onto her painted lips as she reached out to touch his chest. “Thank God you’re back. How is that poor girl? We were just saying how tragic it is that she was misled by our enemies to believe—”
Dante didn't say a word. He simply raised his right hand and caught Vanessa by the throat.
The room collectively gasped, several women shrieking into their napkins. Richard Sterling jumped to his feet, reaching for his jacket pocket, but Marcus was faster, pressing the cold barrel of a semi-automatic directly against the elder Sterling’s temple.
“Sit down, Richard,” Marcus whispered pleasantly. “Or leave pieces of your skull on the tablecloth.”
Dante tightened his grip just enough to cut off Vanessa’s breath, forcing her onto her tiptoes. Her manicured hands clawed at his wrist, her silver gown shimmering as she writhed.
“You have exquisite taste, Vanessa,” Dante whispered softly, his face inches from hers. “The emerald bracelet your father bought you in Milan... it catches the light beautifully on my security cameras. Especially outside my private study at two o'clock in the morning.”
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Vanessa’s eyes bulged with sudden, paralyzing horror. The color drained from her skin, leaving her as pale as the pearls around her neck.
“Did you really believe,” Dante continued, his voice barely louder than a breeze through a graveyard, “that you could order the execution of my unborn child inside my own house, and walk down the aisle with me eight months later?”
