Chương 17 - Black Velvet and Gunsmoke
The Royal Lancaster Ballroom was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing Dom Pérignon, and Europe’s most ruthless predators masquerading in bespoke tuxedos and couture gowns.
Outside, the London rain slicked the black cobblestones. Inside, violinists played Vivaldi while men who financed wars chatted with politicians they owned.
At the top of the grand marble staircase, the master of ceremonies cleared his throat, checking his guest registry with visibly trembling hands.
"Announcing," the herald’s voice resonated over the chamber, causing the chatter below to abruptly die out. "Mr. Elias Kingston. And Donna Saraphina Moretti."
A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom.
Elias stepped into the light. He wore a tailored midnight-blue Tom Ford tuxedo that broadened his already imposing frame. His expression was pure granite, an apex predator strolling into a den of jackals.
Beside him, with her hand resting lightly on his arm, was Saraphina.
She wore a backless gown of deep black velvet that clung to her curves like liquid shadow. Her long hair cascaded down one shoulder, deliberately leaving her exposed neck and the faint, surgical silver scar visible for every oligarch and warlord to see. Around her throat hung the heavy gold Moretti crest, resting boldly against her skin.
She didn't look like a runaway nanny. She looked like an empress who had returned to claim her empire.
Murmurs erupted across the floor.
"Is that Anton’s sister?"
"She died ten years ago!"
"Look at Kingston... they said he was in ruins after the Lucerne raid."
"Eyes on me," Elias murmured under his breath, his lips barely moving as they descended the marble steps. "Four snipers on the mezzanine behind the floral displays. Two security teams by the west exits."
"I have the three men by the bar," Saraphina replied calmly, a dazzling, lethal smile plastered on her lips. "They’re concealing suppressed submachine guns under their overcoats. Amateurs."
"God, you're magnificent," Elias whispered, the heat in his low voice sending a shiver through her velvet-clad spine.
"Focus, Kingston," she murmured back, her fingers gently squeezing his bicep. "Where is Julian?"
Across the crowded ballroom, an older man stood by the private entrance to the subterranean vaults. Tall, aristocratic, wearing a tuxedo with an antique pocket watch chain, Julian Vance raised a glass of champagne in their direction. His cold blue eyes glittered with mocking amusement.
As they reached the base of the stairs, several armed guards moved to intercept them.
"Mr. Kingston," the lead guard stepped forward, reaching inside his jacket. "The Council requests your sidearms."
Elias didn't break stride. Before the guard could pull his weapon, Elias's left hand shot out like an iron vice, seizing the man's throat and driving him backwards into a towering pyramid of champagne flutes.
*CRASH!*
Glass shattered in an explosive cacophony of crystal and foam. Women screamed, men scrambled backward, and the orchestra stopped playing instantly.
Elias pulled his own suppressed pistol from beneath his jacket, leveling it directly between the eyes of the second guard before the man could draw.
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"I don't surrender weapons," Elias announced, his voice carrying effortlessly over the stunned silence of London's elite. "I came to collect what belongs to us."
***
