Chapter 3 - The Gathering of WolvesThe grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel looked like a cathedral dedicated to power, crime, and blood.
Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the ornate ceiling, casting a brilliant glow over fifty mahogany tables set with silver, crystal, and black roses. Surrounding the perimeter of the room were sixty armed enforcers—men from the five ruling families of the New York underworld, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a tense, fragile truce.
Tonight was the Commission Summit.
In our world, a summit was called only when a war threatened to engulf the entire city. The table at the far end of the room was elevated on a low dais, reserved for the bosses of the five families.
Sitting in the center was Dominic Moretti—a fat, arrogant hawk of a man with silver hair, a dark suit, and eyes like a vulture. Beside him sat his daughter Isabella, her wrist wrapped in heavy bandages, her dark eyes scanning the room with anxious, vengeful impatience.
“Where is he?” Dominic growled, slamming his heavy gold ring against his glass. “Rossi disrespects this council by showing up late!”
“Patience, Dominic,” an older boss from the Lucchese family grunted. “Declan Rossi isn't a man who runs late without a reason.”
Right on cue, the heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom swung open.
The room fell into an immediate, heavy silence.
Two dozen Rossi enforcers in matching dark suits stepped inside first, forming a double line from the entrance straight toward the dais.
Then, Declan walked in.
He looked like a king arriving to claim a fallen city. A charcoal-grey three-piece suit hugged his tall, powerful frame. His face was set in a mask of absolute, icy authority.
And on his arm, holding her head high, was me.
I wore a floor-length dress of blood-red silk that draped over my curves like liquid fire. A diamond choker—a Vance family heirloom Declan had recovered years ago—sparkled against my collarbones. My dark hair was swept up in an intricate, regal style, revealing my sharp jawline and the icy determination in my eyes.
Gasps echoed across the ballroom.
“Is that...?” an old capo whispered from a side table.
“Impossible,” another muttered. “She died four years ago!”
Dominic Moretti stood up so fast his heavy chair screeched against the parquet floor. Isabella turned pale as death, her fingers digging into the tablecloth.
“What is the meaning of this mockery, Declan?!” Dominic roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “You bring a fake girl dressed in Vance jewels to a sacred summit?!”
Declan guided me to the center of the floor, directly in front of the elevated dais. He didn't raise his voice, but every word he spoke carried the force of a thunderclap.
“This is Clara Vance,” Declan announced, his hand resting securely at the small of my back. “Daughter of Arthur Vance. Sole living heir to the Vance territory, and my legally wedded wife.”
“Lies!” Isabella shrieked, standing up beside her father. “She’s a waitress! She was working at a cheap restaurant in Midtown three days ago! She’s an impostor hired by Rossi to break our wedding contract!”
I took a step forward, leaving Declan’s side, walking straight toward the dais until I was standing ten feet from Dominic Moretti.
I looked the old vulture straight in his bloodshot eyes.
“Hello, Uncle Dominic,” I said, my voice smooth, clear, and ringing with absolute confidence. “You look well for a man who ordered my father’s murder.”
The room erupted into shocked murmurs.
“She’s crazy!” Dominic yelled, pointing a fat finger at me. “She has no proof! Arthur Vance was killed in an accidental fire caused by a faulty gas line!”
“A faulty gas line that was fed by fifteen million dollars transferred from your Swiss shell company to Marcus Vance’s account two hours before the fire started?” I asked, pulling a folded piece of paper from my clutch and tossing it onto the elevated table in front of the five bosses.
The older Lucchese boss reached out, picked up the paper, and adjusted his reading glasses. As his eyes scanned the bank receipts and wire transfer confirmations stamped with official Swiss seals, his brows furrowed deeply.
“These are legitimate,” the old boss muttered, looking up at Dominic with deep disapproval. “A hit on a sitting Commission member without a vote is an act of treason, Dominic.”
“It’s a forgery!” Dominic spat, sweat beginning to glisten on his forehead. “Rossi forged those documents! This girl is a fake! I demand a blood test under the Commission rules!”
Declan stepped beside me, his long arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me firmly against his side.
“We don't need a blood test, Dominic,” Declan said softly, his voice dripping with lethal promises. “Because under the ancient laws of the Five Families, a blood claim can be settled by a challenge of honor.”
The entire room went deathly quiet.
A challenge of honor was a barbaric, ancient rule that had not been invoked in thirty years. It meant that if a family head was accused of treason, the accuser could demand a duel to the death between champions—or the bosses themselves.
“You’re insane, Rossi,” Dominic sneered, trying to mask the fear rising in his chest. “You think I’m going to fight you in a duel?”
“Not him,” I said, stepping out of Declan’s grip, my eyes locking onto Dominic with pure, unadulterated hatred. “Me.”
Dominic blinked, then burst into a booming, arrogant laugh. “You?! A girl?! You want to challenge me?”
“Under the Vance charter,” I said calmly, “the head of the family may nominate her champion. And I nominate Declan Rossi to cut your throat.”
Dominic’s laughter died instantly in his throat.
He looked at Declan—a man fifteen years younger, built like a tank, trained in military combat, and known across the East Coast as a ruthless killing machine.
“This is absurd!” Isabella cried out, grabbing her father’s arm. “Father, don't listen to them!”
“The law is the law, Dominic,” the Lucchese boss stated flatly, tapping his heavy ring against the table. “A formal charge of treason has been presented with financial evidence. The Vance heiress has named her champion. You either accept the duel at midnight, or the Commission revokes your charter and declares open season on the Moretti family.”
Dominic looked around the room. He saw the cold, greedy eyes of the other three bosses. He saw his own guards looking uncertain, realizing that the tide of power was shifting.
Cornered, the old vulture bared his teeth.
“Midnight,” Dominic hissed, glaring at Declan. “At the old iron docks. No guards inside the ring. Just you and me, Rossi.”
“I’ll be there,” Declan said smoothly.
He turned, offering his arm to me. I placed my hand on his velvet sleeve, and together, we walked out of the Plaza ballroom, leaving behind a room on the absolute brink of total war.
An hour later, in the private dressing room of Declan’s Manhattan penthouse, I sat in front of the vanity mirror, staring at my reflection.
My hands were shaking.
The door opened softly, and Declan walked in. He had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt. He walked over, standing behind my chair, his large hands resting gently on my shoulders.
“You were magnificent in there,” he said softly in the mirror.
“I offered your life up for a duel, Declan,” I whispered, looking up at his reflection. “Dominic won't fight fair. He’ll have snipers. He’ll cheat.”
Declan’s dark lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. He leaned down, pressing his lips against the soft curve of my neck, sending a violent shiver down my spine.
“Let him try, my queen,” Declan murmured against my skin. “I’ve been waiting four years for an excuse to tear that man apart. Tonight, I give you back your empire.”
May you like
I turned in my chair, looking up at him, my heart pounding wild and fast. In the dim light of the dressing room, surrounded by impending death and war, the sheer, undeniable passion between us exploded into the light.
I reached up, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and pulled his lips down to mine.
