Chapter 7 - A Dance with the Devil
The grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a glittering palace of gilded mirrors, crystal chandeliers, and dangerous men dressed in thousand-dollar tuxedos. Women dripped in platinum and diamonds, laughing over flutes of vintage champagne, pretending that the fortunes funding the evening hadn't been washed through blood and bone.
When the double doors opened at nine o’clock, every conversation in the room died.
I stood beside Ciro Veil, my hand resting firmly on the heavy wool sleeve of his black tuxedo jacket. The dress waiting for me in his penthouse had been a masterpiece of crimson velvet—backless, sweeping the floor with a subtle train, cut with a neckline so daring it demanded absolute confidence to wear without flinching. Around my neck sat a collar of black diamonds that Ciro had fastened himself, his fingers lingering on the nape of my neck with slow, deliberate possession before we stepped into the car.
Beside me, Ciro looked every inch the ruthless sovereign he was destined to be. His dark hair was combed back, his jaw clean, his posture radiating a cold, supreme authority that made men step back and part like the Red Sea.
""Smile, little queen,"" Ciro murmured down at me, his hand covering mine on his arm, pressing my fingers firmly against his bicep. ""They are staring because they know they are looking at the future of Chicago.""
Across the polished parquet floor, standing near the towering ice sculpture in the center of the hall, was my father. He was surrounded by his old-guard lieutenants. And standing right beside him, holding a highball of whiskey with an easy, jovial laugh, was Uncle Roberto.
Roberto saw us first.
I watched the color drain from my uncle’s face in real-time. His jovial smile froze, turning into a sickly, grey grimace. He had expected Ciro to be dead at Pier 42; he had expected me to be a casualty of Russian crossfire. Instead, we were walking into the most public event of the year, untouched, radiant, and radiating lethal intent.
My father turned, his eyes widening as he saw me. He stepped away from Roberto, marching across the floor with his silver-tipped cane clicking against the parquet.
""Leora,"" my father said, his voice choked with genuine relief as he reached us. He looked at Ciro, his brow furrowing into a dark scowl. ""Where the hell have you been? Matteo told me there was an incident at the pier. I've had twenty men combing the North Shore looking for her!""
""She was safe,"" Ciro said, his voice smooth as silk, though his eyes never left Uncle Roberto, who was slowly edging toward the side exit leading to the service corridors. ""She was with me, Marco. Where she will always be.""
""Is that so?"" a slick voice interrupted.
Uncle Roberto had stopped retreating; realizing he couldn't sneak away without drawing immediate gunfire from Ciro’s plainclothes guards stationed at the doors, he decided to play the loving uncle. He stepped forward with open arms, a wide, sweating smile plastered across his ruddy face.
""Leora! My God, darling, we were worried sick!"" Roberto boomed, leaning in as if to kiss my cheek. ""When your father said there was shooting on the docks, I thought my heart would stop!""
Before his face could get within two feet of mine, Ciro stepped smoothly between us. The shift was so fast, so fluid, that Roberto nearly stumbled into Ciro’s chest.
""Careful, Roberto,"" Ciro said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, quiet register that made the hairs on my arms stand up. ""You wouldn't want to get any closer. You're sweating through your collar. It's unseemly for an underboss.""
""Ciro, what is the meaning of this?"" Roberto stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward the four men in matching black suits who had just closed in behind him, effectively cutting off all retreat. ""Marco, control your dog!""
""My dog,"" my father said, his voice turning ice-cold as he observed the sheer terror in his brother’s eyes, ""only barks when there is a thief in the yard. What did you do, Roberto?""
""Music,"" Ciro commanded softly, raising two fingers toward the orchestra leader on the balcony.
The orchestra immediately launched into a sweeping, dramatic waltz, drowning out the localized tension. Ciro turned to me, offering his hand with an elegance that defied the violence crackling in the air.
""Dance with me, Leora,"" he said.
I looked at his outstretched hand, then into those dark, mesmerizing eyes that had owned my soul for eight years. I placed my small palm into his.
He pulled me into his arms with a possessive jerk, spinning me out into the center of the ballroom floor. His left hand splayed wide across the bare skin of my lower back, scorching hot, pulling me so close against his chest that the diamond studs of his shirt pressed into my collarbone.
""What is happening to Roberto?"" I whispered as he spun me beneath the blazing chandeliers, the room blurring into a swirl of gold and black.
""Matteo is escorting him to the basement wine cellar,"" Ciro murmured, dipping me low with breathtaking control, his eyes fixed entirely on my lips. ""Where Kozlov’s personal cell phone and five million dollars in offshore transfer receipts are currently waiting for him. Your father will pass the sentence. But I will carry it out.""
""Ciro...""
""Look at me,"" he commanded softly, bringing me back up against his chest, his breath warm against my ear as we glided across the floor. ""Forget Roberto. Forget the docks. Look at me, Leora, and tell me you still think Lisbon was the answer.""
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The music swelled, triumphant and heartbreaking. I tilted my head back, looking into the face of the monster who had protected me from the shadows for half my life. The fear was gone, burned away by the raw, undeniable heat radiating between us.
""No,"" I confessed, my voice barely a whisper against the roaring orchestra. ""Lisbon was a lie.""
