Chapter 1 - The Cold Truth Beneath the Linen
Aleandro did not pull his hand away from Sophia’s fingers. To any spectator across the grand ballroom, his posture remained relaxed, the picture of a powerful man holding the hand of his beloved bride-to-be.
Slowly, effortlessly, he bent down as if adjusting his fallen napkin.
Beneath the long, heavy white tablecloth, where shadows pooled away from the warm glow of the chandeliers, Aleandro’s eyes adjusted to the dimness.
He saw it immediately.
Attached to the underside of the heavy mahogany table with thick electrical tape was a sleek, black metallic device no larger than a deck of cards. Its tiny red LED light pulsed silently, steady and rhythmic like a heartbeat. Wires snaked away from the device, taped along the wood toward the base of Sophia’s side of the chair.
Directly under Sophia’s silk-clad lap sat a small leather pouch.
Inside the partially unzipped pouch lay a micro-frequency radio transmitter and a tiny folded paper.
Aleandro reached out, his long fingers moving with lethal precision. He didn't touch the blinking explosive timer—for that was precisely what the device was—but he expertly slid the paper out of the pouch and slipped it into his palm before sitting back up.
Emma, the housekeeper’s four-year-old daughter, stood watching him with wide, innocent eyes.
Aleandro reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a small gold coin he kept for good luck, and gently pressed it into the child's tiny hand.
"Go to your mother in the kitchen, little one," Aleandro whispered, his voice smooth as glass, completely devoid of the icy rage beginning to boil in his veins. "Tell her you did well."
Emma nodded once, gripped the gold coin tightly, and melted quietly into the crowd.
Aleandro turned his head slowly to face Sophia.
Her face was deathly pale now. The late smile she had been wearing vanished completely. Her hand inside his was freezing cold, trembling so violently that her diamond ring clicked softly against his signet ring.
"Aleandro..." she breathed, her voice a fragile thread under the swelling music of the string quartet.
Aleandro unfolded the small square of paper beneath the table edge, out of sight of the guests, and glanced down.
In sharp, hasty handwriting, the note read:
The device arms at 9:15 PM. Signal the Don when the speech begins, or your brother dies in the cellar.
Aleandro checked his gold wristwatch.
It was 9:02 PM.
Thirteen minutes.
May you like
He looked across the head table toward the far corner of the room—the exact spot Sophia’s eyes had drifted to all evening. Standing near the arched marble doorway was Marco Rossi, the underboss of the rival Camorra family, sipping champagne with a faint, mocking smirk on his lips.
"You have eleven minutes to tell me everything, Sophia," Aleandro murmured, leaning close to her neck as if kissing her cheek, his lips brushing her skin. "Or this room becomes a graveyard—and your brother dies regardless."
