Elena Vitiello POV:
The entire block surrounding Le Bernardin had been locked down by the New York Outfit. Snipers sat on the rooftops, and soldiers guarded the alleyways.
A black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb. Dante stepped out first. He turned and offered me his hand, encased in a black leather glove.
I placed my hand in his and stepped out of the car. I wore a high-necked, long-sleeved black velvet gown. It covered every inch of my bandages, but the fabric clung to my body, turning me into a sharp, lethal silhouette.
Dante placed his hand firmly on the small of my back. We walked through the glass doors together.
The restaurant was packed with the highest-ranking members of the New York underworld. The moment we stepped inside, the room went completely silent.
Dozens of eyes locked onto me. I felt the heavy, suffocating weight of their judgment. I saw the sneers. I felt the hostility radiating from the old-school mobsters who viewed me as nothing more than a broken Chicago toy.
Dante ignored them all. He guided me to the center of the main table and pulled out the chair to his right.
Halfway through the dinner, the tension in the room hit a boiling point.
Sitting directly across from me was Carlo. The man I had exposed that morning. He clearly didn't know I had handed Dante his death warrant yet.
Carlo swirled his red wine. He leaned forward, a nasty grin on his face. He spoke in loud, heavily accented English. He said Chicago women were only good for kneading pasta dough and opening their legs.
A few of the older men at the table chuckled darkly.
The air around Dante turned to ice. His jaw locked. His right hand dropped below the table, his fingers wrapping around the grip of his concealed pistol.
I moved faster. Under the tablecloth, I placed my hand firmly over Dante’s thigh, digging my fingers into his muscle to stop him.
I picked up my linen napkin and dabbed the corner of my mouth.
I looked Carlo dead in the eyes. I opened my mouth and spoke in perfect, flawless old Sicilian—the ancient dialect of the original families, a language almost dead to the modern thugs.
My father had spent millions turning me into the perfect mafia weapon. He just never expected me to use it against men like him.
The entire table froze. The chuckling stopped instantly. Dante’s hand relaxed under mine, and he raised an eyebrow, watching me.
I didn't stop. Still speaking in the ancient dialect, I rattled off a sequence of twelve encrypted GPS coordinates.
Carlo’s face drained of all color. The wine glass in his hand began to shake violently, spilling red drops onto the white tablecloth.
I kept my voice cold and steady. I detailed exactly how he had used that coordinate to smuggle two shipments of stolen cartel weapons past Dante’s borders last month. I named his contact. I named the exact time of the drop.
The silence in the restaurant was deafening. The only sound was the faint clinking of the crystal chandeliers above us.
Carlo began to sweat profusely. He stammered, pointing a trembling finger at me, trying to formulate a lie in English.
I reached into my clutch. I pulled out the folded copy of the IP trace I had printed that morning. I tossed it across the table. It slid to a stop right in front of Carlo’s plate.
The Capos sitting next to him leaned over to look. They gasped.
Dante leaned back in his chair. He looked at me, his chest swelling with raw, unfiltered pride. He snapped his fingers.
Four guards stepped out of the shadows. They grabbed Carlo by his arms and dragged his thrashing, screaming body out the back door.
Dante picked up his wine glass. He looked around the table. His voice was low, but it carried to every corner of the room. From this night forward, her word is my word.
The men at the table quickly lowered their eyes. They raised their glasses in silent submission.
Under the table, Dante turned his hand over. He laced his fingers through mine.
I felt cold metal press against my palm. He slipped a small, heavy black key embedded with a microchip into my hand.
"This is the master key to New York's intelligence network. Now, it's yours."
