Chapter 2 - The Fiancée’s Toast
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The grand ballroom downstairs was a masterpiece of Italian marble and gold leaf, currently filled with the most dangerous men in the city.
At the absolute head of the massive dining table, in the heavy, hand-carved mahogany chair that had belonged to Matteo for ten ruthless years, sat someone else. But it wasn't a rival boss.
It was Celeste.
Matteo’s fiancée looked stunning in a backless emerald-green silk dress, diamonds dripping from her neck and wrists. They were diamonds Matteo had bought for her, paid for with the blood of his enemies. Now, she was using his wealth to entertain the very people who had likely paid for the bullet lodged in his spine.
Sitting immediately to her right was Lorenzo Viti, Matteo’s ambitious and treacherous underboss. Lorenzo had a smug, hungry look in his eyes as he surveyed the room, his hand casually resting on the back of Celeste’s chair.
Celeste picked up a crystal flute of vintage Dom Pérignon and tapped it lightly with a silver spoon.
The ringing sound cut through the heavy laughter and the music, bringing the room to a hushed, expectant silence.
“My dear friends,” Celeste began, her voice smooth and dripping with poisonous charm. “We have faced a difficult few months. The tragedy that befell our great leader, Matteo, has left a heavy shadow over this family.”
A few men bowed their heads in mock respect, but most just kept their eyes fixed on her, waiting for the real message.
“But the Rinaldi empire cannot pause for grief,” she continued, locking eyes with Lorenzo and offering him a devastating, secretive smile. “We must look to the future. We must be strong. We must adapt.”
She raised her glass higher, the chandelier light catching the bubbles.
“To survival,” Celeste said.
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“To survival!” the room echoed in a booming, unified voice.
Laughter erupted immediately after the toast. It was the sound of complete disrespect, a blatant celebration of Matteo’s downfall. Upstairs, listening through the heavy floorboards, Matteo heard every single word of it. The betrayal burned hotter than the bullet wound ever did.
