CHAPTER SIXTEEN #3
No one in the room had an answer. The sheer, suffocating terror of being hunted by the most powerful, merciless syndicate in Italy, without possessing the slightest idea of why, was driving Vanzetti to the brink of insanity.
"The Summit," Vanzetti gasped, his eyes darting frantically around the room.
"The Geneva Summit is tomorrow. Sandro will be there.
I have to speak to him. I have to find out what the misunderstanding is and offer him reparations.
Whatever he wants, I will give it to him. I just need to get in front of him."
***
The grand ballroom of the Hotel d'Angleterre in Geneva was a masterpiece of old-world opulence. Massive crystal chandeliers cast brilliant light over the polished marble floors, illuminating a sea of expensive tuxedos, silk gowns, and the most dangerous men on the European continent.
Ruggero Vanzetti stood near the edge of the champagne fountain, his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs. He had spent the last two hours scanning the crowd, sweating profusely despite the cool air of the ballroom, desperately waiting for the Don of Milan to arrive.
A sudden shift in the atmosphere—a palpable drop in the ambient noise of the room—signaled the arrival.
The double doors at the top of the grand staircase swung open. The armed guards flanking the entrance immediately snapped to attention.
Alessandro Moretti stood at the top of the stairs, a towering, magnificent force of nature in a flawlessly tailored black tuxedo. His presence alone commanded the silence of the ballroom. But it was not the Don who drew the collective, breathless stares of the assembled syndicates.
It was the woman on his arm.
Zina wore a stunning, backless gown of deep, liquid gold that clung to every curve of her body and pooled elegantly at her feet.
Her dark hair was swept up into an intricate, classic style, exposing the long, graceful line of her neck.
She possessed a striking, exotic beauty that made every other woman in the room look ordinary, but it was the cold, untouchable aristocracy in her dark eyes that truly captivated the crowd.
She moved down the staircase beside Sandro with the effortless, predatory grace of a queen descending to inspect her subjects.
Vanzetti stared at her, his brow furrowing in deep confusion.
She was incredibly beautiful, and shockingly familiar, but his panic-addled brain could not immediately place her face.
He saw the way Sandro looked at her—the Don’s hand resting possessively on the small of her back, the open, undeniable devotion burning in his green-grey eyes.
Then, Vanzetti’s eyes caught the flash of light.
On the woman’s left hand, resting lightly on Sandro’s arm, was a diamond the size of a quail egg. It was an engagement ring.
Vanzetti’s mind raced. An alliance, he thought desperately. Moretti has formed a marriage alliance with a foreign family. That must be why he is consolidating his territory. I just need to congratulate him. I need to show my respect to the new bride.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Vanzetti smoothed the lapels of his tuxedo and forced a smile onto his face. He stepped out from the shadows of the fountain, intercepting Sandro, and the woman as they reached the bottom of the staircase.
"Don Moretti," Vanzetti greeted, his voice carrying a slight, nervous tremor. He bowed his head deeply. "It is an honor to see you. I was hoping we might have a private moment to discuss the... recent miscommunications regarding my logistical routes."
Sandro stopped. The warmth he had been directing toward Zina vanished in a microsecond, replaced by an aura of violence so cold and it made the air around them drop ten degrees.
Sandro looked at Vanzetti, his green-grey eyes devoid of a single ounce of mercy. He did not extend his hand. He did not acknowledge the plea for negotiations.
Instead, Sandro turned slightly, drawing Zina forward into the light.
"Ruggero," Sandro said, his voice a low, echoing rumble that carried to the surrounding tables. "I do not believe you have been properly introduced to my fiancée."
Vanzetti looked at the stunning woman. Up close, the familiarity of her striking, aristocratic features slammed into his consciousness with the force of a bullet.
The dark eyes. The imperious, high cheekbones.
He had seen that exact face staring at him from an intelligence dossier months ago, right before he ordered his mercenaries to breach the gates in the Middle East.
Vanzetti stopped breathing. The blood drained from his body, leaving him numb.
Sandro stepped closer, invading Vanzetti’s space, his voice dropping into a chilling whisper meant only for the dead man standing in front of him.
"Allow me to introduce the love of my life," Sandro said, his eyes burning with the promise of annihilation. "This is Sherezine Kazan."
Zina looked Vanzetti dead in the eye, a cold, merciless smile touching the corner of her lips, as the diamond on her finger flashed in the chandelier light.
Ruggero Vanzetti stared into the eyes of the ghost he had failed to kill, and in that horrifying, suspended second, he knew with certainty that he was already a dead man.