A collective gasp rippled through the grand ballroom.
The Capos and underbosses seated in the front rows began to murmur amongst themselves, the sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement.
Thirty percent of the Romano holdings was not merely money.
It was territory, shipping routes, casinos, and blood.
It was enough to shift the balance of power in the entire American underworld.
Salvatore's dark eyes narrowed, his gaze a dispassionate instrument that measured the distance from my hairline to my collarbone as if calculating the path of a blade.
He stepped so close that the air between us grew thin and hot, charged with the heat of his body.
"You have a lot of nerve coming into my house and demanding a Vendetta payout," he growled.
"I am not demanding anything," I replied, my gaze unwavering. "I am simply reading the rules your grandfather wrote."
Mrs. Romano turned to the Consigliere.
"Tell me she is lying," she demanded.
The older man looked as though he had swallowed poison.
He pulled a leather-bound folder from his briefcase and flipped through the heavy parchment pages.
His finger stopped near the bottom of the third page.
All the color drained from his face.
"The clause is there," the Consigliere murmured, his voice strained. "It is ironclad. Don Vincenzo drafted it himself. It is secured by the High Council."
Mrs. Romano swayed on her feet, one hand flying to her throat.
Salvatore did not look at his mother.
His focus was entirely on me.
It was like standing in the shadow of some great, unthinking beast, an entity that displaced the very oxygen in the room by its mere presence.
"Lock her in the VIP holding room," Salvatore ordered his soldiers.
His voice had dropped to a quiet register that made the guards at the door flinch.
"No one goes in. No one comes out. I will deal with her interrogation after I handle the guests."
Two soldiers grabbed my arms.
Their grips were impersonal and absolute, like manacles, but I did not struggle.
I let them march me down the long aisle.
I could feel the weight of a hundred hostile stares on my back, a physical pressure.
They led me through a maze of opulent corridors.
We stopped at a heavy oak door guarded by two more men.
They propelled me inside, and the door locked behind me with a definitive, metallic thud.
The room was dim, lit only by a few wall sconces.
It was designed for private meetings and quiet threats.
A massive mahogany table, polished to a dark mirror, dominated the center, surrounded by plush leather chairs.
I walked over to the table.
There was a small, silver-wrapped wedding favor sitting near a crystal ashtray.
I calmly untied the silk ribbon and popped a dark chocolate truffle into my mouth.
I remained entirely untroubled by the sentence of death hanging over my head.
I had survived the unforgiving, blood-soaked streets of Chicago.
I had built my own quiet dominion in the shadows.
A locked room was nothing.
Suddenly, a soft chime cut through the heavy silence.
I looked down at the small clutch purse I had managed to keep hidden in the voluminous folds of my dress.
I pulled out my phone.
It was a FaceTime request from an unknown number.
I accepted the call and propped the phone against the crystal ashtray.
Camilla's face appeared on the screen.
She was sitting in what appeared to be a lavishly decorated guest suite somewhere within the estate, wearing a silk robe.
Her face was perfectly painted, but her eyes held a familiar, toxic gleam.
"Well, well," Camilla purred. "I see you made it to the altar."
"And you are hiding in a gilded cage," I replied.
Camilla let out a high, mocking laugh.
"I orchestrated this whole thing, Penny. I knew exactly what I was doing."
"You knew the contract demanded the Eldest," I stated.
"Of course I did." A cruel smile touched her lips. "But Dad was always going to let me take the crown. You were just a forgotten stain in Chicago."
She leaned closer to the camera.
Her tone dripped with fake sympathy.
"I set you up as the sacrificial lamb. I knew Sal would be furious when he lifted that veil. I honestly expected him to put a bullet in your head right there."
"He seems to prefer locking me in rooms," I said flatly.
"He is going to destroy you," Camilla hissed, her mask of sweetness beginning to crack.
"You need to sign away your birthright right now. Tell them you renounce the claim."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because Sal only loves me," she snapped. "And I already control all the Russo resources. You have nothing."
I watched her through the screen.
My eye caught a sudden flash of green light around her wrist as she gestured.
It was an emerald bracelet.
My chest grew tight, a sudden, cold compression around my heart.
That bracelet belonged to my mother.
"Where did you get that?" I asked, my voice had become a hollow, toneless thing.
Camilla noticed where I was looking and held her wrist up to the camera.
She smirked.
"Dad gave it to me. He said the Family has no eldest daughter anymore, so the heirlooms go to the true princess."
A cold, familiar numbness washed over me.
"Did you also steal my stories?" I asked.
Camilla paused.
"Did you feed Salvatore the accounts of my childhood?" I pressed, the design of her sick game finally revealing itself. "The warehouse explosion? The scars on my shoulder?"
Camilla laughed again, a cruel, ringing sound.
"Sal loves a tragic history," she mocked. "I just borrowed your little misfortunes to make him protective. He fell in love with a fabricated story, Penny. And he hates you for trying to ruin it."
