Chapter 6 - Betrayal in Blood
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza was a glittering sea of champagne flutes, silk gowns, crystal chandeliers, and sociopaths in black tie. Under the soft orchestral music, billion-dollar illicit territories were traded with polite smiles.
When Dominic Falcone entered the ballroom with Gemma Hayes on his arm, the whispers began immediately.
“Is that the secretary?”
“The one from the docks?”
“He’s wearing the Falcone diamonds on her neck…”
Dominic ignored them, walking with an aura of untouchable authority. His hand remained firmly at Gemma’s waist, guiding her through the crowd toward the private mezzanine where the Commission elders were seated.
Suddenly, the crowd parted, and Sal appeared.
The capo looked different from the sweating, nervous man who had sat at the boardroom table three nights ago. He was dressed in an expensive white tuxedo, flanked by two towering enforcers wearing the silver pins of the Moretti family. Beside him stood Anthony Moretti, the ruthless underboss of the rival syndicate.
“Dominic,” Sal said, a sneering grin spreading across his heavy face. “I see you brought your little pen-pusher. Did you bring her along to take your notes when the Commission takes the eastern terminals away from you?”
Dominic didn’t flinch. His expression remained cold, dead stone. “Sal. I’m surprised you showed your face without your federal handlers holding your leash.”
Sal’s smile twitched, his eyes darting toward Moretti. “I don't know what you're talking about, Falcone. But the Commission is waiting upstairs. They want to see why your port revenue dropped forty percent last quarter. We have documents proving you’ve been stashing the profits in personal offshore funds.”
“Show them,” Gemma spoke up, her voice clear, melodious, and carrying easily over the muted chamber music.
Sal glared at her, his jaw tightening. “Shut your mouth, girl. The grown men are talking.”
Dominic’s hand left Gemma’s waist.
In a fraction of a second, before Moretti’s guards could even react, Dominic stepped forward, grabbed Sal by the throat with one hand, and slammed him against a decorative marble pillar hard enough to crack the stone.
The entire ballroom fell dead silent. Flutes of champagne stopped halfway to lips. The orchestra stopped playing mid-measure.
“Address her with respect,” Dominic snarled, his grip tightening until Sal’s face turned purple, his polished shoes kicking uselessly against the floor. “Or I will rip your tongue out of your head and feed it to the koi in the lobby fountain.”
“Falcone!” Anthony Moretti yelled, stepping back, his hands raised in warning. “No violence at the summit! You break the Commission peace, you forfeit your life!”
Dominic held Sal suspended for three agonizing seconds longer before dropping him like a sack of trash onto the marble floor. Sal gasped for air, clutching his bruised throat.
“There is no peace with a rat,” Dominic said coldly. He turned back to Gemma, offering his arm as if nothing had happened. “Let us speak to the elders.”
Gemma took his arm, her head held high. As they mounted the grand sweeping staircase toward the mezzanine, she whispered, “He’s terrified, Dominic. He knows the flash drive has the real records.”
“He’s desperate,” Dominic replied, his eyes scanning the balcony above. “And desperate men do stupid things.”
He was right.
As they reached the landing of the mezzanine, a server carrying a silver tray suddenly pivoted, dropping the tray with a clattering crash. Beneath the white linen was not champagne, but a shortened 12-gauge shotgun.
The server was one of Sal’s loyal dock workers in disguise.
“Boss!” Dante yelled from the bottom of the stairs, reaching for a weapon he wasn't allowed to carry.
The assassin leveled the barrel straight at Gemma’s chest, aiming to eliminate the witness who held the financial keys to Sal’s betrayal.
Dominic didn’t hesitate. He never hesitated where she was concerned.
He spun Gemma behind him, wrapping his entire body around hers like armor, using his broad back as a human barricade.
*BOOM.*
The roar of the shotgun tore through the ballroom, followed by the screams of high-society guests stampeding for the exits.
Gemma felt the violent jolt that rocked Dominic’s frame. A sharp, guttural groan tore from his throat as the heavy buckshot tore through the back of his right shoulder and ribs. Blood splattered across the emerald silk of her dress.
“Dominic!” she screamed, her arms wrapping around his waist as he stumbled.
Even with half his shoulder shredded by lead, Dominic Falcone did not fall.
With a roar of pure, primal rage, Dominic lunged forward, closing the distance before the shooter could pump the next shell. Dominic’s left hand struck like a piston, shattering the assassin’s windpipe, followed by a brutal sweep that sent the man crashing over the mezzanine railing, plummeting twenty feet down onto the shattered marble floor below.
Dominic turned back, staggering slightly, his hand pressed against his bleeding side. Blood was pouring freely through his white dress shirt, staining his tuxedo jacket.
“Gemma…” he rasped, his vision blurring, his knees finally buckling under the massive blood loss.
“I have you,” she cried, catching his weight against her shoulder, tears streaming down her soot-streaked face as she dropped with him to the floor. “I have you, Dominic! Stay with me! Dante! Call the medics!”
Dominic looked up at her through half-lidded eyes, his bloody hand reaching up to touch her cheek, leaving a smear of red across her pale skin.
“You’re… you’re not hurt…” he whispered, his only concern even as darkness threatened to pull him under.
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“I’m fine, you idiot, I’m fine!” she sobbed, pressing her clutch against his torn shoulder to stem the arterial flow. “Don’t you dare close your eyes! You hear me? Dominic Falcone, don’t you dare leave me!”
***
