Chapter 3 - Blood on the CrystalA mafia dinner isn't about the wine or the food; it's about who survives the last course.
The dining room was vast, dominated by a thirty-foot mahogany table set with crystal stemware, silver cutlery, and dozens of burning white candles.
Over twenty people sat around the table—men in expensive suits with hardened faces and broken noses, and women dripping in diamonds who spoke in hushed, guarded whispers. These were the high-ranking soldiers and family members of the Vitale syndicate.
I sat at Lorenzo’s right hand, with Matteo bouncing happily in his chair next to me.
Throughout the eight-course meal, Lorenzo was attentive, almost fiercely protective. He poured my wine, translated the fast-paced Italian slang spoken by his uncles, and kept his hand rested lightly against the back of my chair, his fingers occasionally touching my shoulder.
"She speaks Italian like a Tuscan native," Uncle Silvio—a thick-necked man with a scar running through his eyebrow—remarked, leaning across the table. "Where did a American girl learn to speak like that?"
"Florence," I answered, trying to keep my voice steady. "I studied art history there for a semester."
"Art history," Donatella scoffed softly into her wine glass. "How quaint. And now you pour coffee for hipsters in Columbus Circle?"
Before Lorenzo could strike back, the massive oak doors of the dining hall burst open.
A bruised, bleeding guard stumbled into the room, collapsing onto his knees near the table. "Don Lorenzo! The perimeter... the back gate has been breached! It's the Morettis!"
Chaos erupted instantly.
Men stood up, kicking back their chairs, reaching inside their tuxedos for heavy silver handguns. Women shrieked, scrambling away from the windows.
Lorenzo didn't flinch. In one fluid, terrifying motion, he stood up, drew a sleek black pistol from his jacket holster, and grabbed my arm, shoving me behind his broad frame while grabbing Matteo with his other hand.
"Marco!" Lorenzo roared over the deafening noise. "Get Maya and Matteo to the panic room under the study! NOW!"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The floor-to-ceiling glass windows at the far end of the dining room shattered into ten thousand shimmering pieces as automatic gunfire ripped through the air. Crystal glasses exploded, plaster rained down from the ceiling, and screams echoed through the grand hall.
I dropped to the floor, wrapping my body completely around Matteo, covering his ears as the deafening roar of gunshots shattered the night.
"Maya! GO!" Lorenzo bellowed, stepping directly into the line of fire, firing three calm, precise shots down the hallway as two masked gunmen tumbled to the marble floor.
Marco grabbed my waist, hauling me to my feet while I clutched Matteo tightly against my chest. We sprinted through the smoke-filled corridors, down a hidden staircase concealed behind a bookcase, into a heavy steel-reinforced panic room.
The thick steel door slammed shut, sealing out the sounds of the massacre above.
I sat on the cold concrete floor in the dim emergency lighting, holding Matteo close, my heart beating so fast I thought my ribs would break. Blood—splattered from one of the guards—stained the hem of my emerald dress.
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"Maya?" Matteo whimpered, burying his face in my neck, shaking uncontrollably. "Is Papa going to die?"
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing a soft kiss against his curls, holding him as tight as I could. "No, baby... no. Your father is a monster to the world. But he won't die tonight."
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