Chapter 11 - Blood on the Silk
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Two weeks into their arrangement, Devan and Naya attended the annual Syndicate Charity Gala.
It was a glittering, venomous affair held at a downtown museum. The Five Families were present, sizing up the paralyzed king and his new, unknown queen. Naya wore a stunning black silk dress, standing tall beside Devan’s chair, radiating an icy confidence she had spent hours practicing in the mirror.
During the dinner service, a waiter approached their table, carrying two crystal glasses of vintage red wine on a silver tray.
“Compliments of Don Rossi, Mr. Marshall,” the waiter murmured, his eyes darting nervously away.
Devan offered a cold smile and reached for a glass.
But Naya’s catering instincts flared. She noticed the waiter’s trembling hands. She noticed the way the liquid in Devan’s glass caught the chandelier light—slightly cloudy, with a faint, oily residue clinging to the rim.
Before Devan’s fingers could touch the crystal, Naya intercepted it.
She picked up the glass, smiled brilliantly at the waiter, and then deliberately dropped it onto the marble floor.
The glass shattered loudly, red wine splashing across the pristine white tablecloth and ruining the hem of her black silk dress.
The entire ballroom went silent.
“Oh, how clumsy of me,” Naya said loudly, her voice dripping with fake embarrassment. She turned her piercing gaze to the waiter, who had turned ashen white. “I suppose I’ll need a fresh glass. Why don't you pour it for me from the bottle? Right here. In front of everyone.”
The waiter panicked. He took a sudden step backward, reaching inside his tuxedo jacket.
He wasn't reaching for a towel. He was reaching for a gun.
“Gun!” Naya screamed, throwing her body directly over Devan to shield him.
Chaos erupted. Devan’s hand flew to his waistband, drawing his own weapon with lightning speed. He fired twice around Naya’s waist. The deafening cracks echoed through the museum.
The waiter collapsed backward, dropping a silenced pistol onto the marble floor.
Screams filled the room. Marshall soldiers flooded the area, forming a human shield around Devan and Naya.
Devan grabbed Naya’s shoulders, pulling her off him, his eyes frantic as he searched her body for blood.
“Are you hit?” he demanded, his voice shaking with absolute terror. “Naya, answer me!”
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“I’m fine,” she gasped, her heart pounding out of her chest. “I’m fine.”
Devan pulled her tightly against his chest, burying his face in her hair. He looked over her shoulder at Rossi, who was sitting across the room, looking pale and furious. The war had officially begun.
