Chapter 7 - The Trap at the Club
At 5:30 in the morning, the rain over Chicago began to lighten into a dismal grey fog.
Inside the executive suite of the Meridian Club, Vivian Sloan stood by the window, sipping a cold glass of water. Her throat still burned where Dante’s fingers had choked her hours ago, but her eyes held a cruel, triumphant spark.
Her phone chimed on the table.
It was an encrypted message from Julian Valenti: The package is secured. The Cross heir is ours. Announce the council shift.
Vivian let out a long, victorious sigh.
It was over. Dante Cross was finished. With his legitimate heir in Julian’s hands, Dante would be forced to sign over the shipping lanes, the real estate holdings, and the family throne. And once Dante was stripped of his power, Vivian would step in to manage his remaining assets as his official representative.
The heavy mahogany doors of the suite swung open.
Vivian turned, expecting to see her assistant or Julian’s emissary.
Instead, Dante Cross walked into the room.
He looked completely calm. His hair was brushed back, his black suit replaced with a fresh dark coat, his hands resting casually in his pockets. Behind him stood six of his top lieutenants, their hands resting on their sidearms.
Vivian’s heart skipped a beat, but she quickly forced a sweet, sympathetic smile onto her lips.
“Dante!” Vivian exclaimed, taking a step toward him. “Thank God you’re back! How is Nora? Did she... did she have the baby?”
Dante walked over to the glass table, pulling out a leather armchair and sitting down calmly. He crossed his legs, looking up at her with an unreadable expression.
“The baby was born at 3:42 AM, Vivian,” Dante said smoothly.
Vivian put her hand over her heart, performing relief. “Oh, wonderful! A boy?”
“A boy,” Dante confirmed. “Though Dr. Harding noticed something strange about him.”
Vivian froze, her smile stiffening slightly. “Strange? What do you mean?”
Dante reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a physical photograph, and tossed it onto the glass table between them.
It was a close-up picture of the sick infant’s neck—showing the distinct, crimson, starburst-shaped Valenti birthmark in crystal clarity.
Vivian stared at the photo. Her face instantly drained of all color, turning as white as paper.
“Recognize it?” Dante asked softly.
“I... I don't know what that is, Dante,” Vivian stammered, backing up a step until her heels hit the edge of the sofa. “Is it... a birth defect?”
Dante leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hazel eyes locking onto hers like steel traps.
“That is the mark of Julian Valenti, Vivian,” Dante revealed, his voice dropping into a quiet, lethal growl. “The man you’ve been sleeping with for fourteen months. The man who paid you three million dollars to intercept my security line while my wife was in labor.”
Vivian’s breath hitched in her throat. Panic, wild and desperate, exploded in her chest.
“Dante, no! That’s a lie! Someone is trying to frame me!” Vivian screamed, backing toward the balcony doors. “Julian Valenti is your enemy! I would never—”
“Julian Valenti is dead,” Dante interrupted flatly.
May you like
Vivian stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes wide with sheer horror. “What?”
“My men hit his estate in Oak Brook twenty minutes ago,” Dante informed her, his voice stripped of every human emotion. “Julian, his brother, and his three top captains were executed in his study. The Valenti family no longer exists in Chicago.”
