Chapter 3 - The Paris Champagne
In the presidential suite of the Hotel George V in Paris, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling balcony doors, illuminating silver trays of half-eaten croissants, empty Dom Pérignon bottles, and scattered designer shopping bags from Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
Dante Romano stood on the balcony in a black silk robe, swirling a glass of sparkling water, looking out over the Eiffel Tower.
He was a striking man—possessing the sharp, aristocratic jawline and cold, dark eyes that had made his father a feared boss in New York. At thirty-two, Dante felt untouchable. The Romano Group was reporting record profits, his rivals were silent, and his upcoming merger with Bennett Logistics would solidify his family's control over the entire tri-state region.
Inside the bedroom, Claire Bennett stretched lazily across the king-sized bed, wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets.
“Dante,” Claire called out, her voice sweet and demanding. “Come back to bed. The private jet doesn't leave until six.”
Dante didn't turn around immediately. He was staring down at his phone.
He had noticed the missed calls from earlier that morning—fourteen missed calls from Serena between 2:30 a.m. and 3:00 a.m.
He had felt a momentary twinge of irritation when he saw them. He had sent her that quick text—In a meeting. Call you later—assuming she was throwing another subtle, passive-aggressive fit about his absence. Serena was always so quiet, so delicate, so easily overwhelmed by her pregnancy. He had assumed she was calling to complain about heartburn or her inability to sleep.
But when he had tried to call her back ten minutes ago, the call had gone straight to voicemail.
And when he tried again, the line went flat.
She blocked me? Dante thought, his dark eyebrows knitting together in annoyance. Since when does Serena block my number?
“Dante?” Claire repeated, stepping out onto the balcony wearing one of his white button-down shirts, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. “What are you looking at? Is your boring little wife bothering you again?”
Dante pulled back slightly from Claire’s grip—an instinctive gesture he didn't quite understand.
“She called fourteen times last night,” Dante said, his voice flat.
Claire laughed, a light, mocking sound. “She’s thirty-six weeks pregnant, Dante. She’s insecure. She knows you’re with me, even if she’s too cowardly to say it to your face. She’s just trying to ruin our weekend.”
“She’s not stupid, Claire,” Dante said defensively, though his own words felt hollow.
“No, but she’s useless to you now,” Claire countered, turning his face toward hers with manicured fingers. “My father’s shipping networks are what you need to finalize the merger. Serena’s family name got you into the country clubs, but the Vale name is dead money. She doesn't have the stomach for your world, Dante. I do.”
Dante looked at Claire. She was beautiful, ambitious, ruthless—everything a mafia boss was supposed to want in a partner. She didn't flinch at the sight of blood, and she understood the brutal mechanics of power.
Yet, a strange, heavy knot was forming in the pit of his stomach.
He reached into his pocket and dialed the landline of their Manhattan penthouse.
It rang eight times. No answer.
He dialed the building’s head concierge, Frank.
The concierge answered on the second ring, his tone unusually clipped. “Mr. Romano.”
“Frank,” Dante said smoothly. “Is my wife in the penthouse? I’ve been trying to reach her.”
There was a strange, suffocating silence on the other end of the line.
“Mr. Romano,” Frank said slowly. “You… you aren't aware?”
Dante’s chest tightened. “Aware of what?”
“Mrs. Romano was taken to New-York-Presbyterian by an emergency surgical team at three o'clock yesterday morning,” Frank said, his voice dropping into a rigid formal register. “There was a massive medical emergency. The foyer floor was covered in blood.”
Dante’s hand froze around the phone. The glass of water in his other hand nearly slipped from his fingers.
“Blood?” Dante repeated, his voice dropping an octave. “What happened? Why wasn't I informed?!”
“Mrs. Romano specifically instructed the building management and medical staff not to contact you, sir,” Frank said flatly. “She stated that you were unavailable.”
Dante’s heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped animal. “Is she… is the baby—”
“I am not authorized to release medical details, Mr. Romano,” Frank interrupted coldly—a tone no staff member had ever dared use with Dante before. “However, I must inform you that representatives from Vanguard Legal Group arrived an hour ago with a federal court order.”
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“Vanguard Legal?” Dante demanded, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell is Vanguard Legal?”
“They are currently changing the locks on your penthouse, sir,” Frank replied. “Your personal items are being packed into boxes and moved to storage. You are no longer permitted on the property.”
