Her heels touch the ground, and she straightens at once. Her gaze sweeps briefly over the entrance before returning to me. There’s a faint tightness to her jaw, but her chin stays high.
Inside, the air shifts immediately. The mingled scents of expensive liquor, faint smoke, and polished wood hit at once. Music and conversation thread together into a hum that vibrates subtly in the space. Heads turn as we step in.
Liliana stays close to me, her hand brushing mine as we move through the crowd. She doesn’t falter, doesn’t look away from the path ahead, though I can feel her awareness sharpening under the weight of the stares we draw.
I guide her toward the private section reserved for the summit. The lighting softens here, but the tension sharpens. The air carries the kind of quiet that precedes something calculated. Rival groups gathered in one room—it always settles like this.
We step inside, and the murmur of conversation falters briefly. Heads turn, eyes shifting to me, then to her. I feel the shift of attention, deliberate and measured.
Liliana’s chin stays lifted, her expression composed. Her presence here is intentional. A statement.
I guide her to our place at the table, my hand at the small of her back as she sits. I take the seat beside her, my attention sliding toward the men across from us without losing the steady awareness of her beside me.
She doesn’t shrink under the scrutiny. She doesn’t flinch. She sits with the same quiet composure she had in the car, even as every gaze in the room weighs on her.
And in that silence, beneath the undercurrent of calculation and rivalry in the air, I feel something settle in my chest. A deep, quiet pride that she is here. That she is mine.
Tonight, she stands with me. And everyone in this room will know exactly what that means.
The lighting in the private room is low, the air threaded with smoke and the faint hum of the bass from the club below. The scent of liquor lingers, heavy and expensive, clinging to polished wood and sharp suits. The walls are lined with bottles, each one catching and bending the light, glinting like quiet promises.
The men are seated at the long table, each with their own guards positioned along the edges of the room. They watch with practiced stillness, hands close to their jackets, eyes scanning the space like it could turn hostile at any moment.
Liliana is a still point beside me, her composure steady even under the weight of a dozen stares. I keep a hand at her back, steady, before speaking.
“Gentlemen,” I say, my voice cutting through the quiet. “This is my wife. Liliana.”
The shift is immediate. A flicker of surprise runs through the room, sharp enough to register on every face before they mask it. It is subtle, but it is there—the pause, the slight widening of eyes. A few glance at one another, like they are recalibrating old assumptions.
Liliana doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. Her smile is soft, measured, the kind that doesn’t seek to impress but cannot be ignored.
There is a long moment before the room exhales again.
The introductions pass, and talk turns back to business. Routes. Numbers. Territory. Every word is wrapped in a layer of civility so thin it could snap at any moment. Alliances here are temporary; the room hums with tension, everyone waiting for someone else to misstep.
I listen and respond when needed, my voice measured, but my awareness never leaves her. She stays still beside me, her presence quiet but constant.
It is halfway through a discussion on supply lines that one of the men shifts in his seat. His gaze flicks toward Liliana, and I feel the change before he opens his mouth.
“Giovanni,” he says. “Your wife has been staring at me all evening. Doesn’t she have anything to say?”
The room stills.
My hand stills on the table. Tomasso turns, his gaze slicing to the man. Beside me, Liliana tenses, the faint motion of her breath shifting. Her hands start to lift, signing something quiet, an apology maybe, but I take her hand before she can finish.
The man laughs, the sound low and mean. “Ah, so she’s an invalid. That’s why you’ve kept her hidden.” His gaze slides over her, slow and assessing. “I can see why you keep her though. Her body makes it worth it.”
The words are barely out of his mouth before I move.
I reach across the table and drive my fist into his face. My fist connects with his face, the crack of bone loud in the sudden silence. His head snaps back, chair skidding before he collapses to the floor.
The room erupts.
Chairs scrape, voices rise, hands go to weapons. Tomasso is already moving, slamming into the nearest guard before his gun is even clear. I push Liliana back behind me, my hand steady at her hip, guiding her into the cover of my body.
The man on the floor groans, blood running from his broken nose, but I don’t give him the chance to recover. I pull my gun from the holster at my side, the motion smooth from years of practice.
I fire once. The shot cracks through the room, silencing everything for half a beat. The bullet tears through his skull, ending him in an instant.
