Chapter 3 - The Gemologist’s LedgerSalvatore’s face flushed a deep, mottled purple. He stepped forward, towering over me by half a foot, his chest puffed out with indignant rage.
"You little whore," Salvatore spat, his hand twitching toward his lapel. "Your husband may let you run around like a spoiled princess, but in New York, women who interrupt men's business learn manners the hard way—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Before Salvatore’s fingers could even brush his jacket, Maso’s heavy grip clamped onto the back of his neck, slamming him down against the edge of the walnut desk with a sickening thud. At the exact same second, both New York bodyguards drew their sidearms, only to find themselves staring straight down the barrel of Alessandro’s customized Sig Sauer and Maso’s Glock.
"Lower your weapons," Alessandro commanded, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried the absolute weight of absolute death.
The two bodyguards froze. Their eyes darted around the room, assessing the angles, realizing too late that they were outmatched, outnumbered, and standing in a slaughterhouse disguised as a study. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, they lowered their guns back into their holsters.
Salvatore groaned against the polished wood of the desk, his expensive silk tie twisted crookedly. "You're... you're making a war," he choked out. "The entire Commission will—"
"The Commission doesn't exist anymore as far as Chicago is concerned," Alessandro said coldly, walking around the desk. He didn't look at Salvatore; his eyes remained fixed entirely on me. He stopped just a foot away, the familiar scent of cedarwood, expensive cologne, and gunpowder washing over me. "My wife is right, Salvatore. You're a fake. And your bosses in Brooklyn sent you here to test whether my house was weak."
Alessandro turned his gaze back down to the man pinned against his desk. "Tell them that the glass is cracked, but the diamond is sharper than ever. Now get out of my house before I feed you to the dogs in the courtyard."
Maso released his grip abruptly, shoving Salvatore forward. The New York envoy stumbled, caught his balance with a humiliated grimace, adjusted his jacket with shaking hands, and glared at both of us with pure venom.
"You'll regret this," Salvatore hissed through his teeth. "Both of you."
He motioned to his men, and the three of them practically bolted from the study, their footsteps echoing down the grand hallway until the heavy front doors slammed shut.
For a long moment, the room was completely silent except for the rhythmic ticking of an antique grandfather clock in the corner.
Alessandro exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You shouldn't have come back here, Adriana. It's not safe."
"Save the dramatic warnings for someone who doesn't know how to pick a lock, Alessandro," I said, stepping closer to him, refusing to yield an inch. "You left a bloody ring on my workbench this morning. You staged a public humiliation last night. And now there are New York rats sniffing around my father’s legacy. You're going to tell me what’s happening right now, or I swear to God, I will walk out that front door again and never look back."
Alessandro looked down at me, a bitter, self-deprecating smile touching the corners of his mouth. "You never listen, do you?"
"Never," I replied evenly.
He sighed, turning back toward his desk. He reached into a hidden drawer beneath the false bottom and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound ledger with water-damaged pages and gold leaf lettering along the spine—my father’s old business ledger from the jewelry district.
"Do you recognize this?" Alessandro asked softly.
I gasped slightly, stepping forward and running my fingertips over the worn leather cover. "My father’s primary ledger from 2018. It went missing the night of the warehouse fire... the night he died."
"It didn't burn," Alessandro said, laying it flat on the desk and opening it to a marked page. "It was stolen. And for the last five years, someone inside our own organization has been using the Antwerp diamond routes to smuggle industrial-grade explosives disguised as uncut gemstones."
Leah, who had slipped quietly into the study while Salvatore was being thrown out, gasped softly. "Explosives? In the diamond shipments?"
"Not just any explosives," Alessandro continued, his eyes darkening. "Military-grade C4 molded to look like raw blue diamonds. And the person signing off on the shipping manifests wasn't a random syndicate soldier. It was the same person who gave Camila that bruise on her wrist last night—my own cousin, Viktor."
I stared at the open ledger. On the page before me, stamped in crimson ink, was a signature I knew better than my own: Viktor’s initials, forged right over my father’s authentic seal.
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"Viktor is dead," I whispered, remembering the funeral two years ago. "We buried him."
"We buried an empty casket," Alessandro corrected grimly. "And last night, at your birthday dinner, he sent me a message through Camila. A message telling me that if I didn't hand over control of the North American diamond syndicate by midnight tonight, the entire district—including your father’s old shop—goes up in smoke."
