Chapter 8 - The Crimson Dinner
The tension inside the Marcelli mansion turned explosive over the next forty-eight hours. Vincent placed the entire estate under twenty-four-hour military lockdown, restricting Elena and Misha to the central wings of the house. The gardens were no longer safe; the perimeter fences were lined with triple the usual guards, their automatic weapons visible beneath their heavy coats.
On Thursday night, Vincent called a mandatory dinner in the grand dining room.
It wasn't a private family meal. He had invited the top capos of the Marcelli syndicate, along with Bianca Salvi, who had returned to the house under the pretense of organizing a charity event, though everyone knew she was there to watch the fallout from the Bratva threat.
Elena was instructed to sit at the foot of the long table, wearing a beautiful dress of dark blue velvet that Vincent had personally ordered for her. She felt entirely out of place among the hardened men in expensive suits and the glittering diamond collars of their wives.
Bianca looked down the table at her, her eyes flashing with a venomous satisfaction. "Well, Vincent, it seems your little charity case has brought a Russian army to our gates. The capos are saying the North Side routes are already blocked. Is a maid’s comfort worth the blood of our soldiers?"
A low murmur of agreement rose from several of the older capos at the table. They looked at Elena with cold, disapproving glints in their eyes. To them, she was a liability—a piece of garbage from a rival syndicate that should have been discarded months ago.
Vincent slowly set his wine glass down. The entire table went silent instantly, the power of his presence shifting the room’s air like a physical current.
"Silvio," Vincent called out, looking at his oldest capo. "How long have you served my father?"
"Thirty years, Don Vincent," the old man replied, his voice cautious.
"And in those thirty years, did my father ever turn over a guest to an enemy to protect his wallet?"
Silvio lowered his eyes. "No, Boss. Never."
Vincent stood up, walking slowly down the length of the table until he stopped right behind Elena’s chair. He placed his massive hands firmly on her shoulders, his touch radiating an intense, unshakeable heat that made her whole body steady.
"Elena Volkoff is not a maid in this house, Bianca," Vincent announced, his voice booming across the grand hall like thunder.
"She is the woman I intend to marry. She is the future mistress of the Marcelli syndicate. If the Bratva wants to fight for her, they are fighting for the queen of this city. If any man at this table thinks his loyalty is worth less than a Russian shipping route, you can stand up right now and leave your jacket on the chair. Otherwise, you will prepare for war. Am I clear?"
Elena’s breath caught in her throat. She looked up at Vincent, her blue eyes wide with a stunning, profound shock. To marry. He hadn't just protected her; he had claimed her in front of his entire empire.
Bianca’s face went entirely white, her fork clattering against her porcelain plate with a sharp, cracked sound. She stood up from the table, her tears of humiliation breaking through her makeup as she stormed out of the hall for the final time.
May you like
None of the capos moved. Slowly, old Silvio stood up, raising his wine glass toward Vincent and Elena. "To the Don. To the future Donna."
The room erupted into a deep, rhythmic cheer, but Elena barely heard it. She was looking into Vincent’s ice-blue eyes, seeing a promise of absolute devotion that had been born in the rain outside Apartment 3C.
