Elena Moretti POV:
Dante tilted his head back. He looked up at me from his knee, his blue eyes burning with a dark, fanatical obsession.
"Yes, my queen," he said, his voice raw and loud enough for the entire hall to hear.
He reached inside the breast pocket of his bespoke suit jacket. He pulled out a custom Montblanc fountain pen. He held it in both hands, offering it up to my fingertips like a priest offering a relic to a god.
"This is against the rules!"
A hoarse, furious shout ripped through the silence.
An old, conservative mafia elder from the front row jumped to his feet. His face was purple with rage. "You cannot hand half the Outfit to a woman! It violates a hundred years of tradition!"
His voice echoed off the crystal chandeliers. The Washington politicians immediately scrambled backward, their polished shoes slipping on the marble floor. They knew blood was about to spill.
My hand stopped inches from the pen. I slowly turned my head. I locked eyes with the screaming elder. My face was completely blank. I didn't feel a drop of fear. I only felt a cold, clinical annoyance.
Dante's face changed. The fanatic devotion vanished. He turned his head slowly to look at the elder. His eyes were the dead, vacant eyes of a corpse.
Two men in black tactical gear materialized from the shadows behind the elder. They moved without making a sound. In perfect unison, they drew their suppressed weapons and pressed the cold steel barrels directly against the back of the elder's skull.
The hard, metallic click of the safeties disengaging echoed in the quiet room.
The elder's knees buckled. His arrogant rage evaporated. Cold sweat instantly soaked through the collar of his expensive dress shirt. He whimpered, his eyes darting around wildly for help. Nobody moved.
"Here," Dante said, his voice dropping to a lethal, flat register, "I am the rule. Anyone who objects can go feed the sharks in the Atlantic."
The banquet hall was so quiet I could hear the hum of the yacht's engines deep below the deck. People stopped breathing. The absolute, crushing weight of Dante's violence paralyzed the room.
I looked away from the trembling old man. A sharp, mocking smirk curved my lips. I was so used to this fake, fragile power of old men. It broke so easily.
I reached out and took the Montblanc pen from Dante's hands. I pulled the cap off. The nib touched the heavy parchment paper. The scratching sound of the metal against the paper was magnified by the silence.
I signed my full name. The strokes were sharp, aggressive, and jagged. With that final stroke of ink, I tore the chains of the old world to shreds.
Standing by the champagne tower, the lawyer adjusted his tie. He stared at the signature on the screen, knowing that the structural foundation of the American underworld had just been rewritten in a matter of seconds.
Dante stood up. He didn't hesitate. He wrapped his massive hand around the back of my neck, pulled me flush against his chest, and crashed his mouth down onto mine.
It was a violent, territorial kiss. I tasted the metallic tang of his aggression mixed with the sweet residue of champagne. He was branding me in front of hundreds of people.
The crowd erupted. The applause was deafening, frantic. Even the people who had wanted to object clapped until their hands burned, desperate to prove their loyalty and save their own lives.
Thousands of gold foil confetti pieces rained down from the domed ceiling. They drifted over our shoulders like a royal coronation shower, catching the light.
I pushed Dante back just enough to breathe. My chest heaved. I looked into his eyes, my own eyes blazing with ambition and the intoxicating rush of being unconditionally worshipped.
My assistant rushed forward. He snatched the signed document, locked it back into the biometric briefcase, and vanished behind a wall of heavily armed guards.
The music swelled again. The party shifted into a frantic, nervous celebration. Dante took my hand, and we walked down the steps. The crowd parted instantly, splitting like the Red Sea to let us through.
A group of top-tier Wall Street investors hurried over. Their previous arrogant postures were gone. They bowed slightly, offering me flutes of champagne, their voices dripping with flattery.
I took a glass. I spoke to them in rapid, flawless financial jargon, dissecting their hedge fund strategies in seconds. Their eyes widened in shock. They realized I wasn't just a figurehead. I was a predator.
Dante stood exactly half a step behind my right shoulder. He let me hold court. His eyes never left my face, standing as my absolute shield.
An A-list actress, wearing a dress that left nothing to the imagination, tried to push her way through the crowd. She intentionally stumbled, letting out a soft gasp, aiming to fall directly against Dante's chest.
Dante didn't even blink. He took a smooth step to the side. The actress hit the floor hard, her knees smacking the marble. Dante lifted his leg and stepped over her writhing body as if she were a piece of garbage in an alleyway.
I laughed out loud. The sound was bright and cruel. I looped my arm through Dante's, leaving the humiliated actress on the floor, and walked out of the noisy banquet hall.
We stepped out onto the private upper deck. The freezing ocean wind hit my heated skin. The silence out here was absolute.
Dante stepped up behind me. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling my back against his chest. He buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply, breathing in the scent of my vanilla perfume.
Suddenly, the sharp, shrill ring of a satellite phone shattered the quiet.
The deck door flew open. Dante's chief assistant ran toward us, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Sir, Madam, an urgent wire from Chicago. Old Mr. Vitiello... passed away from a sudden heart attack."
