Chapter 29 Mara
Mara
The champagne tastes like tonic water. I stand next to Emilio in the Tribeca gallery, surrounded by New York's cultural elite, who sip Dom Pérignon while discussing Renaissance influences they'll never truly grasp.
Afternoon light streams through the tall windows, casting exclusive art in golden shades that should feel warm but instead seem fragile, ready to shatter at the first hint of trouble.
Carmela moves gracefully among the art pieces, glowing in her green silk dress.
She looks every bit the sophisticated gallery supporter, talking about chiaroscuro with collectors who see beauty as an investment.
At twenty-three, she seems untouchable, shielded by wealth and status.
She has no idea that danger has followed the guests and small talk into her safe space.
"Forty-seven guests confirmed," I whisper to Emilio, my voice just audible over the polite conversation.
"Two security guards are visible, but they're focused on art theft, not assassination.
Standard gallery rules." My trained eyes take in the room.
There are many exits—main entrance, a service corridor by the champagne, an emergency door near the restrooms, and a loading dock for the expensive paintings.
Too many ways in and out, making it hard to secure a place meant for openness.
"Chase's people could be anyone," I add, scanning faces that blend into New York's art scene.
"Collectors, journalists, service staff.
Perfect cover for a surprise attack." Emilio's hand lightly touches my back, his thumb moving in a way that looks affectionate but actually positions me to quickly reach the nearest exit.
His touch feels hot through the fabric, affecting me even as my mind calculates threats and escape routes.
"Carmela's been here since the setup," he notes, his voice tense and controlled. "Minimal protection, maximum exposure. If Chase wanted to send a message about targeting what we care about most, this is it."
The knowledge chills me. This is a calculated psychological attack meant to break the Rosetti family emotionally rather than through direct conflict. It's personal warfare, Chase's specialty, honed over years of taking down rivals by destroying what they love.
I remember the bride in Paris who died in her new husband's arms, wedding music still playing, red spreading across her white dress.
"There," Emilio says quietly, focusing intently. "Northeast corner. Three men who aren't looking at the art."
I follow his gaze without moving my head, using my peripheral vision to spot the threat.
The men in expensive suits that don't quite fit, European style that doesn't match the American scene, their posture hinting at military training rather than art appreciation.
They move through the crowd with deliberate awareness, scanning faces and positions instead of admiring Renaissance art.
"Contractors," I whisper, my heart racing with recognition. "Italian specialists. I've seen their kind before in European missions."
They're not just looking at art or chatting about culture. They're waiting, ready to strike when the moment is right. Assassins pretending to be art lovers, as patient as spiders, aiming to target my future sister-in-law.
"We need to move her," I say, realizing the urgency as I see the lead assassin signal his team with subtle hand gestures. "Now, before they finish getting into position."
"Agreed." Emilio guides me toward Carmela, moving with authority, weaving through groups talking about art and sipping champagne. "But carefully. Panic leads to chaos, and chaos helps them."
We walk through conversations about art trends and market rumors. Carmela sees us first, her green eyes widening in surprise, then narrowing with suspicion. Her excitement fades when she recognizes me, the woman she still hasn't forgiven for her brother's long obsession.
"Emilio," she says, accepting his kiss on both cheeks while giving me a sharp look. "I wasn't expecting you. Or her."
Her cold tone could freeze champagne, but I get it. To her, I'm the one who broke her brother's heart and disappeared, then failed to prove my loyalty by killing Callahan.
Emilio replies calmly, his voice cutting through her defenses. "Mara wanted to see the exhibition. She has a great eye for Renaissance art."
I step forward, offering my hand smoothly despite the tension between us. "Your brother mentioned your work as a curator," I say warmly. "The way you've arranged these pieces creates a beautiful conversation between different historical periods."
Carmela's handshake is firm and steady, but her eyes stay on my face. She's examining me closely, like she's checking a painting for authenticity, looking for flaws or anything that reveals my true nature beneath the surface.
"And what draws you to Italian masters specifically?" she asks, hinting at more than just small talk.
It's a test to see if my interest is real or just for this meeting.
I look at the large Caravaggio reproduction on the wall behind her and answer with real appreciation.
"The way darkness makes light valuable," I say sincerely.
"How shadows add depth that plain light never could.
Beauty that only exists because of the danger around it. "
Something in Carmela's expression changes, maybe surprise, or recognition that my words are genuine, not just social niceties. Before she can respond, I notice movement on the side that makes my stomach tighten with concern.
The contractors are moving with more purpose, dropping their act of casual browsing for something more serious. The leader touches his earpiece, getting instructions that make his face set with deadly focus.
"We have a problem," I say quietly, trying to keep my tone normal while I think of what to do.
"They're moving closer." Emilio doesn't change his stance, but I can sense the shift in his energy, though he still looks like a cultured boyfriend chatting about art with his sister.
His hand moves from my back to my waist, putting himself between the threat and the two women he promised to protect.
"Carmela," he says, his voice dropping to a tone that demands attention.
"I need you to listen carefully and do exactly what I say.
" His voice cuts through the gallery's refined atmosphere like a sharp knife.
Carmela, with her artistic nature, senses the serious danger, knowing her brother doesn't exaggerate.
"What's happening?" she whispers, her green eyes showing her quick thinking.
"Nothing that concerns the other guests," Emilio replies with authority. "But you need to walk casually to the service exit behind the champagne station. Right now."
"Emilio, I can't just leave the exhibition. I've spent mont—"
"You can and you will," he says with a tone that ends all arguments. "Trust me or risk dying here. Those are your only choices."
The harsh truth hits like cold water. Carmela turns pale as she realizes the danger, understanding her brother is serious about family safety. Around us, conversations continue smoothly, unaware of the threat among the art and champagne.
"Service exit," she whispers, realization hitting her. "Behind the champagne station."
"Slowly," I advise, already stepping in front of the contractors and their target. "Act like you're checking the catering. Don't look at them, don't run, don't do anything that shows you know."
We start to casually head toward safety, three people talking about art while danger lurks among the champagne and culture. The contractors watch us but don't hurry, they're waiting for the right moment their training has taught them to spot.
We're fifteen feet from the service exit when everything changes.
The lead contractor's earpiece crackles, and his face shifts from calm watching to quick action. The signal they needed just came through. He signals his team sharply, and suddenly they're moving with deadly intent through the crowd.
"Go!" Emilio shouts, dropping all pretense as the threat becomes real. "Move now!"
Carmela runs, her heels clicking on the marble as she leaves behind sophistication for survival. The service door slams open, and she vanishes into the corridor, leaving Emilio and me to face enemies who no longer see the need for patience.
Around us, the gallery's vibe changes as people's survival instincts kick in. Conversations stop, champagne glasses freeze mid-air, and people in expensive suits suddenly remember they can be hurt.
The first contractor pulls back his jacket, showing a black gun that catches the afternoon sun through the big windows. The sight of a weapon in this place of beauty causes panic. Women scream, champagne glasses smash on marble, and men with big share portfolios realize they're mortal.
I move quicker than I can think.
The crystal champagne flute in my hand turns into a weapon, its sharp edge capable of cutting deep with enough force and timing. I can use anything nearby, turning fancy items into tools for harm.
The contractor focuses on Emilio, seeing him as the main threat and ignoring me as a minor concern. Big mistake. While he's distracted, I move in and stab the jagged crystal into his throat.
Blood splatters on a nearby Monet as his life drains away. He falls with a wet thud, his weapon clattering on the marble floor amidst the chaos of screaming guests and breaking glass.
"Behind you!" I yell as the second contractor sneaks up on Emilio.
Emilio spins swiftly, a knife appearing as if it were part of him. The blade finds its mark between ribs with the precision that has made him famous in circles where hesitation equals death. The contractor drops instantly, blood spreading beneath Renaissance paintings.
The third man hides behind a pedestal, using a statue as a shield while guests flee in panic. He aims at Emilio, waiting for the perfect shot to end the standoff.
I pick up the fallen contractor's gun, its weight familiar despite the adrenaline rushing through me. The safety clicks off softly, somehow audible over the surrounding chaos.
"Drop it!" I demand, aiming steadily at him. "Now!"
Instead of listening, he turns toward me, his gun swinging my way quickly. Time seems to pause. The barrel looks huge, promising a deadly end.
I shoot twice. Both shots hit the center, showing my training. The bullets push him back into the statue, marble and flesh colliding with a brutal end.
Silence blankets the gallery like a thick curtain. Armed attackers are down, leaving behind traumatized civilians and enough chaos to mar walls that once knew only beauty. The sharp smell of gunpowder mixes with champagne and fear, creating a scent that will haunt this place forever.
"Carmela?" Emilio calls out to the service exit, his voice strained with emotion.
"Safe," she replies from the hallway beyond. "Are they all down?"
"All down," I confirm, my hands trembling as I secure the weapon. The reality of what just happened starts to hit me, armed attackers taken down by force, turning a peaceful Sunday into a nightmare.
Sirens scream in the distance, the police alerted by gunfire in Tribeca's art district. We have only minutes before this turns into a crime scene, before questions arise that could unravel everything we've built.
"We need to go," Emilio says, heading quickly toward the service exit. "Before this turns into a crime scene investigation."
I follow, stepping over bodies that moments ago threatened everything he holds dear. The stains on my hands catch the gallery light, dark and lasting. After years of escaping violence, I've shown I can deliver it precisely when my family needs protection.
In the hallway beyond, Carmela waits with wide eyes and shaking hands. She looks at me like I'm something new and dangerous, something that revealed its true nature by saving her life.
"You saved my life," she whispers, her words carrying more than just simple gratitude.
"I protected you," I reply, meaning every word. "That's what family does."
Her expression changes.
"Thank you," she says simply, and for the first time since I returned to New York, I hear forgiveness.
At last.