Chapter 5 - THE SABOTAGE AT THE SUMMIT
The night of the Valenti summit arrived under a blanket of heavy, blinding snow. The grand dining room of the Moretti villa was lit by massive silver chandeliers, the long table laid with fine porcelain, crystal glasses, and heavy silver cutlery.
Sergio Valenti—a ruthlessly ambitious man with slicked-back hair and a cruel smile—sat across from Matteo, flanked by his four top enforcers. Bianca Russo sat near the end of the table, acting as a high-society hostess, pouring wine and laughing at Valenti’s stale jokes.
Clara stood in the corner of the room near the mahogany doors, holding Bruno’s leather leash. Bruno lay peacefully at her feet, his dark eyes watching the room calmly as long as Clara’s hand rested on his back.
“Your dog seems remarkably quiet tonight, Matteo,” Sergio Valenti sneered, taking a sip of his Barolo wine. “I heard a rumor he almost mauled a groomer last week. Is it true you’re letting a laundry maid handle your security asset?”
Matteo didn't lift his eyes from his plate. “Clara handles Bruno better than anyone in Italy. Which is why she is in this room.”
Bianca smiled sweetly from the side. “Oh, she tries very hard, Sergio. Though we all hold our breath whenever she carries the crystal. She has a habit of... dropping things.”
A quiet chuckle ran around the Valenti side of the table. Clara kept her eyes fixed on the floor, ignoring the burning heat in her cheeks.
Suddenly, Sergio Valenti stood up, holding his crystal glass high. “A toast, then! To new shipping routes across Lake Como, and to mutual prosperity!”
Everyone raised their glasses. But as Clara watched Bianca reach for the silver decanter on the sideboard, her sharp eyes caught a subtle, frantic movement.
Bianca’s sleeve brushed against the bottom of a heavy antique candle sconce mounted on the wall directly above Matteo’s head. The iron latch holding the heavy sconce had been subtly unhooked beforehand—a staged accident meant to crush Matteo’s skull or cause enough chaos for Valenti’s men to draw weapons under the guise of confusion.
The iron sconce began to tilt forward.
Clara didn't think. She didn't hesitate.
“Matteo, move!” she screamed.
She let go of Bruno’s lead and lunged forward with everything she had, dropping her shoulder and shoving Matteo’s heavy chair backward with a violent burst of strength.
CRASH!
The heavy iron sconce plunged downward, smashing into the mahogany table directly where Matteo’s head had been a microsecond earlier. Crystal shattered, wine spilled like blood across the white tablecloth, and silver dishes clattered to the floor.
Before Valenti’s guards could draw their weapons in the sudden chaos, Bruno let out a deafening roar, leaping over the fallen chairs and pinning Valenti’s chief enforcer against the wall, his massive jaws snapping inches from the man’s throat.
Matteo’s guards instantly drew their firearms, aiming twenty barrels directly at the Valenti delegation.
Matteo stood up slowly from the floor where Clara had shoved him. He didn't look at the shattered iron on the table. He didn't look at Valenti.
He looked down at Clara, who was lying sprawled on the rug beside him, her palms bruised, her breath hitching in panic.
“Clara,” Matteo said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly calm. “Are you hurt?”
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“I... I’m fine,” she gasped, pushing herself up. “The iron... I saw it falling.”
Matteo reached down, pulled her to her feet with one powerful arm, and tucked her securely behind his broad back. Then he turned his gaze toward Bianca Russo, whose face had turned the color of fresh snow.
