Elena Moretti POV:
One month later.
The grand ballroom of The Plaza Hotel was a sea of glittering crystal and dripping gold. We had rented out the entire floor to celebrate Leo's full moon banquet. It wasn't just a party; it was a blatant display of absolute power. Every major political figure and underworld boss on the East Coast was in attendance.
I sat at the center of the head table. I wore a deep burgundy gown with a plunging neckline. My body had fully recovered, and the heavy ruby crown resting in my hair marked me as the undisputed Queen of the Outfit.
Dante stood behind my chair. He held tiny Leo effortlessly in one massive arm, dressed in a custom miniature tuxedo. Dante's free hand rested firmly on my waist, his thumb stroking my skin, his eyes daring anyone in the room to challenge us.
Two steps behind me, hidden in the shadows of the heavy velvet curtains, stood Mia.
She wore a sharp, tailored black suit. She was utterly silent. Her eyes moved with terrifying speed, scanning the crowd like a starving wolf. She had survived the deepest hells of human trafficking. Her instincts for danger were purely animalistic.
The room erupted in applause as the mayor finished his toast.
From the far side of the room, a waiter in a crisp white uniform began pushing a silver champagne cart toward our table.
He kept his head bowed. His steps were measured and calm, blending perfectly with the rhythm of the music. But his knuckles gripping the cart handle were bone-white.
He was a ghost. A surviving soldier from the rival family Dante and I had bankrupted and slaughtered months ago. Strapped tightly beneath his uniform jacket were blocks of C4 plastic explosive. The detonator was hidden under the white linen cloth of the cart.
He was ten steps away.
Mia's eyes flicked downward. She didn't look at his face; she looked at his feet.
The waiter was wearing heavy, rubber-soled tactical boots. They were designed for combat grip, completely different from the smooth leather dress shoes issued by the hotel.
Mia's pupils shrank to pinpricks. Her right hand slid smoothly behind her back, her fingers wrapping around the ivory handle of the micro-pistol I had gifted her.
Five steps away.
The waiter suddenly snapped his head up. His eyes burned with suicidal, fanatic hatred. He ripped the linen cloth back, plunging his hand toward the bottom shelf of the cart.
The mafia bosses at the surrounding tables were laughing, completely blind to the reaper standing among them.
Dante felt the shift in the air. His muscles tensed, but with Leo in his arms, his reaction time was severely compromised.
The waiter's fingers brushed the red button of the detonator.
Mia moved.
She didn't shout a warning. She didn't hesitate. She drew the gun and fired in a single, fluid motion.
*Thwip.*
The suppressed gunshot was barely a whisper over the jazz music.
The bullet struck with surgical precision. It tore straight through the waiter's right wrist, shattering the bone and severing the tendons instantly.
The waiter let out a bloodcurdling scream. His hand went limp, and the plastic detonator bounced off the cart, hitting the carpet.
Chaos erupted. Guests screamed and scrambled backward.
Dante's personal guards surged forward like a pack of rabid dogs, tackling the screaming waiter to the floor. Another guard, trained in bomb disposal, threw himself over the detonator, covering it tightly with a thick Kevlar blast blanket.
The crisis was neutralized in three seconds.
I remained seated at the head table. I didn't flinch. I slowly raised my crystal glass and took a sip of champagne. Not a single drop spilled.
Mia smoothly holstered her weapon and stepped back into the shadows. She stared down at the bleeding assassin.
"Your shoes are too dirty."
