Chapter 6 - BAIT FOR THE WOLF
The invitation was sent out across New York’s elite circles within forty-eight hours: The Mercer Family Re-Opening Gala.
It was a bold, arrogant middle finger to the underworld. Dominic Mercer was announcing to the city—and to Julian Vance—that Blackthorne House was open, that the attack hadn't broken him, and that he was hosting a high-profile charity auction in the very same ballroom where the blood had been spilled two weeks earlier.
The media called it reckless. The underworld called it a suicide mission.
I called it a trap.
On the night of the gala, the ballroom glittered once more under a brand-new crystal chandelier. Politicians, tech moguls, and billionaire investors mingled, sipping champagne, completely oblivious to the fact that half the men in bespoke tuxedos standing near the exits were elite syndicate enforcers armed with concealed submachine guns.
I stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the ballroom, wearing a backless emerald silk gown that contrasted sharply against the pale skin of my healing shoulder. The dress was designed to conceal the heavy ballistic vest I wore underneath.
"You look dangerous," a low voice murmured behind me.
I turned to see Dominic stepping out of the shadows. He looked immaculate, a king surveying his chessboard.
"I feel dangerous," I replied, gripping the railing. "Are you sure this is going to work, Dominic? Julian isn't stupid. He knows this is a setup."
"Julian is arrogant," Dominic corrected, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. "He thinks he won eight years ago when he burned you alive. He thinks I'm a soft corporate billionaire who doesn't have the stomach for a real bloodbath. He won't be able to resist coming to watch the empire crumble firsthand."
"And if he brings an army?"
"Then the groundskeepers are going to have a lot of digging to do tomorrow," Dominic said calmly.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the entrance of the ballroom swung open.
The room went dead silent. The string quartet stopped playing mid-note.
Walking through the threshold was Julian Vance.
He didn't wear a mask. He wore a pristine white dinner jacket, flanked by four armed mercenaries disguised as bodyguards. He strolled into the ballroom as if he owned the estate, a smug, sickening smile plastered across his face. Heads turned in terror as the high-society guests recognized him and scrambled out of his path.
Julian’s eyes scanned the room, ignoring the terrified elites, until they locked directly onto the second-floor balcony.
Right on me.
He raised his glass in a silent toast, his smile widening into something truly demonic.
May you like
Dominic’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter. He handed his glass to a passing waiter, his hand dropping casually toward his holster.
"Show time," Dominic whispered, and vanished into the crowd.
