Chapter 7 - Face to Face at the Gala
Dante pushed through the gathering crowd, his hands trembling as he stepped between Bianca and Vivien. His eyes darted wildly from Vivien’s face down to the triple pram where three pairs of curious hazel eyes were watching the glittering lights.
“Vivien...” Dante whispered, his voice cracking with raw, unvarnished shock. “What is this? Whose children are these?”
Vivien offered him a cool, devastating smile. “These are my children, Dante. Leo, Christian, and Evelyn.”
“Yours?” Dante’s chest heaved. “How? Dr. Rossi told me—we spent five years—”
“Dr. Rossi was poisoning me with hormonal blockers on your brother’s payroll,” Vivien said clearly, not lowering her voice by an octave.
The gasps from the surrounding syndicate bosses were deafening. Several capos looked directly at Marco, their expressions turning dark and predatory. In their world, interfering with a Don’s bloodline was an unforgivable act of treason punishable by death.
“She’s lying!” Marco shouted, his voice shrill with terror as he backed away toward the exit. “She’s trying to destroy our family!”
Vivien snapped her fingers. Jean-Paul stepped forward, handing a thick manila folder to Don Salvatore, the venerable seventy-year-old head of the Chicago Commission who stood watching from the front row.
“Those are Dr. Rossi’s sworn federal affidavits, Salvatore,” Vivien stated with absolute authority. “Complete with wire transfer receipts from Marco’s offshore shell accounts detailing four hundred thousand dollars in bribes to keep me chemically infertile.”
Don Salvatore flipped through the pages, his weathered face hardening into stone. He looked up at Marco with eyes that promised execution. “Take him to the cellar,” Salvatore commanded quietly to his two bodyguards.
Marco screamed as two massive men grabbed him by his arms and dragged him backward through the service doors, his heels scraping helplessly against the polished floor.
Dante stood frozen, the reality of his own catastrophic blindness crushing him beneath its weight. His own brother had poisoned his wife. His own brother had orchestrated his ruin.
“Vivien...” Dante took a stumbling step forward, his hands reaching toward the pram. “If Rossi was lying... then these children... are they...?”
“Don't touch them,” Vivien said, her voice turning sharp as a razor.
Dante flinched, pulling his hands back as if burned. “Are they mine, Vivien? Tell me. I have a right to know!”
“You gave up all rights to my life and my children the night you cleared dinner and told me Bianca would be given the house in Kenilworth,” Vivien replied, her eyes boring into his soul. “You sat across from me and said a woman’s worth was measured in legacy. You told me you were patient, but you couldn't wait three months while your mistress paraded her belly.”
“I was wrong!” Dante pleaded, completely oblivious to the hundreds of high-society guests watching his public humiliation. “I was manipulated! Vivien, look at me! I am the head of the Moretti family!”
“No, Dante,” Vivien said softly, pulling a certified court document from her purse and placing it against his tuxedo lapel. “You were the head of the Moretti family. As of eight o’clock tonight, Tria Spolia called your thirty-million-dollar debt due. You are officially bankrupt. The house in Kenilworth, the lakefront estate, and the shipping docks belong to my children’s trust.”
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She turned to look at Bianca, who stood frozen in terror beside the dessert table.
“And as for you, Bianca,” Vivien added with chilling calm. “You might want to call your baby’s real father in Miami. Because Dante Junior isn't carrying a single drop of Moretti blood.”
