Chapter 5 - The Grand Hotel AmbushThe Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a sea of crystal chandeliers, gilded mirrors, and eighty years of Chicago’s darkest political history.
Behind closed doors on the fifth floor, twelve men sat around a massive oval conference table. These were the elders of the Viera syndicate—men who had grown rich on extortion, gambling, and legitimate real estate, men who valued stability and profit above all else.
At the head of the table stood Dario Viera. He wore a sharp pinstripe suit, his thin moustache impeccably trimmed, his face flushed with the intoxicating prospect of absolute power.
"Elio has lost his mind!" Dario declared, slamming his hand onto the mahogany table. "He’s being manipulated by Victor Moretti’s daughter! He’s locked Victor in a basement, he’s seizing North Side assets without board approval, and he brought a war to our doorstep that nearly got us all killed three weeks ago!"
An older board member, Uncle Mateo, stroked his grey beard thoughtfully. "Victor Moretti is a powerful man, Dario. If Elio has him locked away, it could mean total war with the North Side."
"Which is why we must remove Elio tonight!" Dario insisted, leaning forward, his eyes bright with greed. "We declare him unfit. We appoint an interim council—led by me—and we return Victor Moretti to his territory with an apology and a renewed alliance!"
"A brilliant strategy, Dario," a smooth, clear voice echoed from the back of the room. "Except for one minor detail."
The heavy double doors of the boardroom swung open with a dramatic, thunderous bang.
The twelve board members jumped to their feet, several reaching instinctively inside their jackets for weapons.
Standing in the doorway was Elio Viera.
He wore a tailored black tuxedo, his posture immaculate, his power absolute. Beside him, her arm looped gracefully through his, stood Geneva Viera.
I wore a floor-length dress of deep crimson silk that draped over my curves like liquid fire. The black diamond necklace burned against my pale collarbone, catching the light of the chandeliers. My hair was swept up in a regal knot, my chin held high, my eyes calm, cold, and entirely unyielding.
Behind us stood Bruno and eight heavily armed Viera enforcers, their submachine guns held at low-ready.
The silence in the room was absolute.
Dario turned pale, taking an involuntary step back against the high windows overlooking Michigan Avenue. "Elio... this is a private board meeting—"
"This is an execution," Elio corrected calmly, walking into the room with slow, measured steps, dragging me smoothly beside him.
The board members backed away from the table, leaving Dario isolated at the head.
Elio stopped ten feet from his cousin. He did not pull a gun. He did not raise his voice. His mere presence filled the massive room, suffocating every breath of air.
"You speak of stability, Dario," Elio said, his deep voice carrying into every corner of the room. "You speak of returning Victor Moretti to his power. But you forgot to tell the board about the twelve million dollars that cleared your offshore account in Grand Cayman yesterday morning."
Dario’s eyes went wide with terror. "What? That’s... that’s a lie!"
I took a step forward, sliding a leather folder from under my arm and tossing it onto the center of the conference table.
"The wire transfer came directly from a holding company controlled by Marco Santoro," I said, my voice clear, ringing with the absolute authority of a woman who held every string. "Dario didn't just organize this meeting to save the family. He sold the access codes to the Viera estate three weeks ago. He was the one who authorized the hit on our wedding night."
The board members gasped. Uncle Mateo looked at Dario with pure, disgust-filled rage. "Traitor!"
"It isn't true!" Dario screamed, his hand trembling violently as he reached inside his jacket. "She’s lying! She’s a Moretti! She’s trying to destroy us from the inside!"
He whipped out a small chrome pistol, pointing it directly at my chest.
Before he could place his finger on the trigger, Elio moved with terrifying, inhuman speed.
Elio closed the distance in a heartbeat, his broad hand grabbing Dario’s wrist and twisting it upward with a sickening CRACK.
Dario howled in agony as the gun clattered uselessly onto the table. Elio didn't stop. He grabbed Dario by the throat, driving his massive frame backward across the mahogany table, scattering papers and crystal water glasses everywhere, until Dario was pinned flat on his back, gasping for air under Elio’s crushing grip.
Elio leaned down, his gray eyes burning with a dark, lethal rage that made the entire room freeze in terror.
"You pointed a gun at my wife," Elio whispered, his voice so low it was almost a purr. "In front of my board. In my city."
"Elio... please..." Dario choked out, his eyes bulging, his fingers feebly clawing at Elio’s iron arm. "We’re blood... we’re family..."
"Family doesn't try to kill my bride," Elio said coldly.
He pulled a small, sleek silenced pistol from his waistband, pressed the barrel directly against Dario’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.
Pfft.
A dull, muffled pop echoed in the room.
Dario’s body went limp instantly.
Elio stood up smoothly, adjusting his cuffs, entirely unbothered by the pool of blood slowly spreading across the mahogany table. He pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped a tiny speck of red from his thumb, and tossed the cloth onto Dario’s chest.
He turned to face the eleven remaining board members. They were all standing at attention, their faces pale, their eyes filled with absolute, terrifying submission.
"Is there any further discussion regarding my leadership?" Elio asked softly.
No one spoke. No one dared to breathe.
Uncle Mateo bowed his head deeply. "The Viera family stands behind you, Boss. Absolutely."
The other board members quickly bowed their heads in unison, murmuring their absolute allegiance.
Elio nodded once, satisfied. He walked back to where I stood, extending his arm to me. I slid my hand over his forearm, feeling the intense, steady pulse of his strength beneath the fine wool of his jacket.
He looked down at me, his gray eyes softening into something raw, intense, and breathtakingly warm.
May you like
"Let’s go home, Geneva," he whispered. "Our work here is done."
As we turned and walked out of the ballroom, flanked by our guards, the entire room remained bowed, leaving behind the shattered remnants of a traitor and the undeniable rise of a new, absolute monarchy.
