Chapter 2 - THE SILVER WATCH
“He is.”
The old man’s finger remained locked on Antonio.
Vivienne’s mind raced, struggling to process the shift in the room. She had spent three years meticulously building a case against Don Salvatore DeLuca. She had endured Antonio’s arrogant touch, smiled through dinners with monsters, all to bring down the fading emperor of the East Coast.
But the old man in the back of the ballroom—Enzo, Salvatore’s oldest and most trusted consigliere—wasn’t looking at the Don. He was staring at the groom.
“What are you talking about?” Antonio sneered, his voice dropping its polished veneer. “The old man’s gone senile.”
“He isn’t,” Enzo rasped, stepping forward. He clutched his side as he walked, and Vivienne realized with a jolt of horror that a dark crimson stain was spreading across his tuxedo. He had already been shot. “The ledgers... the missing bodies... the betrayal of the commission. It was never your father, Antonio. It was you.”
Before anyone could react, the tactical team stationed at the stained-glass doors kicked them open.
But they didn’t shout, “Police!”
They didn’t flash FBI badges.
Instead, they raised their matte-black rifles and opened fire directly into the crowd of DeLuca captains.
“Down!” Vivienne screamed, tackling Enzo behind an overturned banquet table as the wedding cake exploded into a cloud of white frosting and porcelain.
Chaos swallowed the room. The men Vivienne had thought were her backup were systematically executing Salvatore’s loyalists. They were Antonio’s private death squad, dressed in stolen tactical gear.
Antonio stood completely still amidst the crossfire, straightening his cuffs. He looked down at Celeste, the maid of honor, who was screaming on the floor. He didn’t offer her a hand. He just kicked her aside and walked toward the exit.
Vivienne drew her concealed weapon from her thigh holster, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She aimed at her new husband’s back, but a heavy hand grabbed her wrist.
It was Salvatore.
The old Don’s face was ashen, his silver hair coated in plaster dust from the shattered ceiling. “If you shoot him now, his men will slaughter everyone in this room,” he growled, his voice thick with a grief Vivienne couldn’t understand.
“He set you up,” Vivienne snapped, pulling her arm free. “He set us both up!”
“I know,” Salvatore said, his eyes locking onto hers. And there it was again—that haunted, terrifying recognition. “You have her eyes. God help me, you have her exact eyes.”
“Who is my mother?” Vivienne demanded, pressing her back against the table as bullets chewed through the wood above them.
Beside them, Enzo coughed violently. Blood bubbled at his lips. He reached a trembling, wrinkled hand toward Vivienne.
“Take it,” the dying man whispered.
Vivienne looked down. In his palm rested a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch. It didn’t tick.
“Why?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“Because the bride needs to know why she was chosen,” Enzo breathed. His eyes fluttered shut, his hand falling limp against the marble floor.
Vivienne grabbed the watch. She pressed the small latch on the side. The silver cover popped open.
There was no clock face inside. Instead, there was a faded, folded photograph.
Vivienne stared at it, the breath completely leaving her lungs.
It was a picture of a beautiful woman with dark, striking eyes—eyes identical to Vivienne’s. The woman was holding a newborn baby. And standing beside the woman, with his arm wrapped protectively around her waist, was a much younger Don Salvatore DeLuca.
Vivienne looked up from the photograph, her reality fracturing into pieces.
May you like
Salvatore was staring at the picture. A tear tracked through the dust on his weathered cheek.
“We have to go,” Salvatore whispered, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward a concealed door hidden behind the orchestra stage. “Before my son kills us both.”
