Chapter 3 - The Broken Glass Waltz
My brain didn't calculate the odds. It didn't assess the geopolitical hierarchy of the Chicago underworld. My body simply reacted the only way it knew how: with spectacular, uncoordinated momentum.
As Whitaker’s fingers curled around the grip of a snub-nosed revolver concealed in his jacket, I took a panicked step forward, my towering five-inch heel caught the trailing edge of an ivory tablecloth, and I completely lost my center of gravity.
I went down like a felling timber.
My shoulder collided with the corner of the heavy banquet table. The entire seven-tier champagne fountain—one hundred and forty crystal coupes filled to the brim with vintage champagne—shuddered, tilted, and collapsed directly onto James Whitaker and Julian Bianke.
The sound was apocalyptic.
Shards of crystal glass exploded across the marble floor. Hundreds of liters of golden champagne cascaded over Whitaker’s head, blinding him, while the heavy brass serving tray struck him squarely across the chest. His gun went flying from his slick fingers, skittering across the wet floorboards until it slammed against Vincent’s leather boot.
The ballroom erupted into sheer pandemonium. Women screamed, security alarms blared, and dozens of armed guards reached into their tuxedo jackets in a chaotic standoff.
I landed flat on my hands and knees in a massive pool of champagne and shattered glass, soaking my eleven-thousand-dollar silk gown, shivering violently.
""Amelia!""
Dante didn't draw his weapon. He didn't look at Bianke. He dropped straight to his knees in the broken glass, completely disregarding his bespoke suit, his hands grabbing my upper arms and pulling me up against his chest.
""Are you cut?"" he demanded, his voice laced with a sudden, uncharacteristic panic that stunned me. ""Look at me! Did you cut your hands?""
""I... I broke the glasses,"" I stammered, coughing on the alcohol fumes rising from the drenched carpet. ""Mr. Costa, the champagne... it was forty dollars a bottle...""
Dante let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh that shook his ribs. He scooped me entirely off the wet floor, cradling me against his chest like an injured child, ignoring the champagne dripping from my hem onto his white dress shirt.
""To hell with the champagne,"" he growled.
He rose to his feet, holding me in his arms, turning his gaze toward Julian Bianke, who was wiping wine from his eyes in stunned fury.
Vincent stood over Whitaker, his heavy foot planted squarely on the accountant’s throat, pressing the man’s face into the puddle of broken glass.
""Your accountant is clumsy, Julian,"" Dante said, his voice ringing out over the silent, terrified crowd with icy finality. ""Attempting to draw a weapon in the presence of my lady. Consider this party over. Vincent, bring Whitaker to the garage. We’re leaving.""
""You can't walk out of here with him, Costa!"" Bianke shouted, his voice shaking with humiliation.
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Dante didn't even turn around. He carried me toward the grand exit doors, his stride long, confident, and completely untouchable.
""If any of your men step within ten feet of this door, Julian,"" Dante said without looking back, ""my snipers on the mezzanine will paint this ceiling with your brains. Have a good evening.""
