Chapter 1 - The Silver Wolf's Ring
The memory of Prince Street faded back into the dark reality of the Moretti ballroom. Eight weeks ago, Alessandro had picked up that blue star-shaped button with a gentle precision that belied his formidable size. Today, that same hand was wrapped in a tight leather glove as he looked down at the photograph I had forwarded to Marco's phone.
"Look at the ring," I said, pointing at the zoomed-in pixelated image on the screen. "A silver wolf with a split jaw. Does that mean something to you?"
Marco lowered his phone, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched beneath his gray-ing beard. He glanced at Alessandro. The silence between the two men was heavier than the thunderstorm rattling the stained-glass windows of the estate.
"The Volkov syndicate," Marco said softly, his voice gravelly. "Specifically, Nikolai Volkov’s personal hit-squad. They haven't crossed the river into Manhattan in five years."
"Why now?" I asked, pulling Emma closer to my side. Her small hand was buried deep in the pocket of her pale blue dress, her fingers tightly clutching her loose pearl button. "And why was he photographing a six-year-old child?"
Alessandro didn't answer right away. He turned toward the broad windows overlooking the rain-drenched terrace. Below, flashlights flickered through the dark estate gardens as security guards searched the perimeter.
"Because Nikolai Volkov knows how I operate," Alessandro said quietly, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register that made the air in the room feel cold. "He knows I have no wife, no heirs, no personal attachments that can be leveraged. For ten years, the Moretti family has been an impenetrable fortress because I lived like a man with nothing to lose."
He slowly turned back to look at us. His dark eyes softened just an inch as they rested on Emma, then moved to mine.
"Until tonight," he added. "Emma didn't just ask a question in front of two hundred people. She gave Nikolai Volkov the one piece of information he’s been hunting for a decade: my weakness."
My heart hammered violently against my ribs. "We are not your weakness, Alessandro. We’re just a restorer and her daughter from Queens."
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"You were," Marco interrupted gently. "Until the king of the city got down on one knee in front of his entire empire and promised to make you his wife."
Before I could process the terrifying weight of those words, a sharp crack echoed from the terrace outer gates—the sound of a high-caliber gunshot silenced by a suppressor.
