Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Gallery
The wedding was scheduled for the first Saturday of the following month, held at a private, heavily fortified chapel on the outskirts of Lake Geneva. Only sixty people attended: Victor’s inner circle, his most trusted capos, and little Leo, who stood proudly as the ring-bearer, clutching a velvet pillow with both hands and smiling up at me as I walked down the aisle.
The ceremony was short, cold, and binding. There were no vows of romantic fluff; instead, we exchanged traditional promises of loyalty, protection, and endurance. When Victor slipped the wedding band onto my finger, it felt less like a celebration and more like a sealing of an eternal pact.
Back at the Romano estate, the reception was a quiet, tense affair. Syndicate capos in tailored Armani suits drank expensive scotch in the library, casting sidelong glances at me as I stood beside Victor by the grand fireplace.
"Don't let them intimidate you," Victor murmured into my ear, his hand resting securely at the small of my back, right over the spot where the bullet had torn through my flesh three weeks ago. "They're testing you. They want to see if the maid is still hiding underneath the silk."
"I'm not hiding, Victor," I replied quietly, lifting my champagne flute and taking a sip. My hand didn't shake. "I never was."
A dark, approving smile touched his lips.
Later that evening, while the guests were still mingling in the ballroom, I slipped away down the dim corridor toward the west wing to check on Leo, who had fallen asleep watching a movie in his playroom.
As I walked past the private art gallery—a long, shadowy hallway lined with Renaissance paintings and marble busts—a sudden movement caught my eye near the shadows of a large mahogany bookcase.
I stopped. "Who's there?"
The shadows shifted. A man stepped out into the dim wall-sconce light.
It wasn't one of Victor’s guards.
He was wearing a custom gray security uniform—the exact same uniform I had worn just a month ago. But the face was wrong. It belonged to Marcus Vance, one of Victor’s senior capos who had supposedly been out of town overseeing the shipping docks in Gary.
Marcus was holding a small, flat electronic device, pressing it directly against the wall-mounted security panel that controlled the estate’s secondary biometric vault.
"Well, well," Marcus sneered, a cold, predatory smile spreading across his thin lips. "The little cleaning girl who caught a bullet. I have to admit, Clara, you played your cards right. Sleeping your way into the master suite? Impressive upgrade."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my voice remained ice-cold. "What are you doing, Marcus?"
"Doing what needs to be done," Marcus hissed, his hand sliding inside his suit jacket toward a concealed shoulder holster. "Victor has gone soft. Taking in a stray cat, marrying a nobody—he’s risking the whole syndicate for domestic comfort. Moretti’s men are moving in tonight, and all I have to do is turn off the perimeter sensors from this terminal."
He pulled his Glock free, raising the barrel toward my chest.
"It’s a shame," Marcus chuckled darkly. "You survived the sunroom attack just to die in the hallway. Guess you'll never get to enjoy that diamond ring."
May you like
He stepped forward, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Click.
