Three powerful families had been invited.
The Morettis.
The Bellandis.
And the Carusos.
Their representatives had arrived in expensive cars, surrounded by security teams. Some wore diamonds. Others wore watches worth more than the apartment buildings in which Elena's colleagues lived.
Nobody discussed business openly.
They didn't need to.
A glance across a table could decide the fate of an entire neighborhood.
Elena had learned to keep her eyes down.
She had worked at the Belladonna for eleven months. Her salary paid the rent on a small apartment in the northern district and covered the medication her younger sister needed after a complicated operation.
It wasn't a glamorous life.
But it was quiet.
And after everything she had survived, quiet was enough.
"Table seven needs another bottle."
Her supervisor, Margaret, appeared beside her.
Elena nodded.
"Of course."
"And don't go near the private section unless someone calls you."
"Understood."
Margaret hesitated.
"Especially not near Mr. Moretti."
Elena glanced toward the ballroom.
"Why?"
Margaret gave her a look.
"Because people who become interesting to men like him rarely enjoy the experience."
Elena almost smiled.
"I'll try to remain invisible."
"Good girl."
She returned to her work.
Across the room, Luca Moretti stood beside the windows.
He wore a black suit, a white shirt, and no tie. His posture was relaxed, but the men around him behaved as though every movement required his permission.
He wasn't the loudest man in the room.
He was the quietest.
And that made him more dangerous.
Elena had seen photographs of him in newspapers. She knew the stories. Every city had its own version of Luca Moretti.
Some called him a businessman.
Others called him a criminal.
A few called him a monster.
Elena had no interest in deciding which description was correct.
She had spent too much of her life around men who believed fear was a form of respect.
She knew better.
At approximately nine forty, she was collecting empty glasses near the west corridor when she noticed something unusual.
A man in a gray suit entered through a service door.
He was carrying no tray.
No clipboard.
No uniform.
He looked directly at Luca.
Then he looked toward Vincent Rinaldi.
For a fraction of a second, the two men exchanged glances.
Vincent frowned.
The stranger immediately turned away.
Elena watched him disappear behind a marble column.
She might have forgotten him if she hadn't noticed what he left behind.
A small white envelope.
It was resting beneath a decorative plant near the private dining entrance.
Elena hesitated.
Then she picked it up.
There was no name on the outside.
Only a single black symbol.
A circle divided by a vertical line.
Her fingers tightened.
She knew that symbol.
She had seen it on the inside cover of a leather notebook that belonged to her father.
A notebook she had buried in a wooden box eleven years earlier.
She turned the envelope over.
There was a handwritten sentence on the back.
THE DAUGHTER OF MARCO VALE IS STILL ALIVE.
The world seemed to narrow.
Elena looked toward the ballroom.
Luca Moretti was still standing beside the windows.
The man in the gray suit was gone.
Her heart began to pound.
She wanted to open the envelope.
She wanted to throw it away.
Most of all, she wanted to leave the hotel.
But she had no time.
Margaret called her from the service corridor.
"Elena! We need you!"
She slipped the envelope into her vest pocket and walked away.
She did not notice the man watching her from the second-floor balcony.
He had seen her pick it up.
And he had immediately sent a message.
THE GIRL IS HERE.
***
At ten past ten, Luca Moretti raised his glass.
The room quieted.
He was not a man who enjoyed speeches, but tonight required one.
"My father believed a family was only as strong as the people willing to stand beside it when the doors closed."
He glanced at the men around the table.
"Tonight, I want to thank those who have remained loyal."
A few glasses lifted.
Luca continued.
"Some of you have known me since I was a boy. Others have only known me as the man who inherited a name that many people wanted to destroy."
His eyes moved briefly toward Vincent.
"I understand the difference between loyalty and obedience. One is a choice. The other is a prison."
A strange silence followed.
His uncle, Salvatore Moretti, sat near the head of the table.
At sixty-two, Salvatore had the appearance of a retired professor. Silver hair. Gold-rimmed glasses. A gentle smile.
People who didn't know him found him charming.
People who did know him avoided sitting with their backs toward him.
He lifted his glass.
"Your father would be proud."
Luca looked at him.
"Would he?"
Salvatore smiled.
"Of course."
Luca took a small sip.
Then he set the glass down.
Something was wrong.
A strange numbness had begun spreading through his left hand.
He looked at the glass.
The wine was dark red.
He smelled it.
Nothing unusual.
But his fingers were no longer responding properly.
He looked toward Vincent.
Vincent had turned away to answer a message.