Chapter 8 - The Confrontation
The grand ballroom looked like a war zone.
Shattered glass covered the floor like ice. Broken furniture, torn silk curtains, and discarded champagne glasses were scattered among the fallen columns.
The civilian guests had been safely evacuated through the rear service exits by Moretti’s men, leaving only the cold, silent cavern of the main floor.
Victor Solerno stood alone near the raised dais where the head table had been set, his coat discarded, his shirt collar unbuttoned. His submachine gun lay empty on the floor beside him.
He was pouring himself a glass of twenty-year-old scotch from a crystal decanter that had somehow survived the destruction.
The heavy double oak doors swung open.
Roman walked into the room alone.
He wore no jacket, his white shirt stained with dirt, wine, and soot, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He carried no visible weapon.
Behind him, standing in the doorway under the guard of twenty heavily armed Duca soldiers, stood Elena. She refused to wait in the car.
Victor turned around, holding his glass of scotch, a bitter, hollow smile touching his lips as he saw Roman walking toward him.
“You always were impossible to kill, Roman,” Victor said softly, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Just like your father.”
Roman stopped ten feet from the dais, his hands resting casually in his pockets. “Don't speak my father’s name, Victor. You aren't fit to bleed on the same floor he walked.”
Victor set the glass down on the table with a soft click. “I loved your father, Roman. But he was weak. He thought honor and tradition could keep a family alive in a modern world. And you... you were turning into him.”
“My father died protecting his brothers,” Roman said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “You sold yours for a percentage of Chicago’s drug trade.”
Victor let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I built this empire! I deserved the crown!”
“You were a consigliere, Victor,” Roman corrected, taking two slow steps closer. “An advisor. You were never a king. And tonight, you proved why.”
Victor’s eyes flicked past Roman toward the doorway, landing on Elena. “And that girl... the quiet little bird. She was the one who pulled the thread, wasn't she?”
Roman’s eyes darkened into black ice. “Her name is Elena Duca. She is the wife of the boss. And she has more courage in her pinky finger than you’ve had in your entire miserable life.”
Victor sneered, his hand slowly drifting down toward the waistband of his trousers. “She’s a liability, Roman. A weakness that will destroy you—”
Before Victor’s fingers could touch the small derringer pistol tucked inside his belt, Roman moved.
He closed the ten feet between them in a heartbeat, his right hand shooting out like a striking viper, locking around Victor’s throat.
With a surge of terrifying, primal strength, Roman lifted the older man completely off his feet and slammed him backward onto the heavy mahogany head table.
Decanters shattered. Glasses crashed to the floor.
Victor gasped for air, his hands clutching frantically at Roman’s iron grip, his face turning a deep, dangerous purple.
Roman leaned down, his face inches from Victor’s.
“You threatened my wife,” Roman whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, absolute fury that made the room freeze. “You used her family. You tried to make her a puppet in your pathetic little coup.”
Victor choked, his eyes bulging with terror as he realized Roman wasn't just defeating him—he was executing him.
“Please... Roman...” Victor wheezed out.
“There is no mercy for traitors in this family,” Roman said softly. “And there is no forgiveness for anyone who touches my wife.”
With a single, violent twist of his shoulders, Roman snapped Victor’s neck.
A sickening crack echoed through the vast ballroom.
Victor’s body went instantly limp, his hands dropping uselessly to the shattered wood of the table.
Roman released his grip, stepping back as his former mentor slid lifelessly onto the floorboards.
Silence returned to the room.
Roman stood breathing heavily, looking down at the dead man who had once been his father’s best friend. He felt no triumph. He felt no joy. Only the cold, heavy weight of absolute finality.
He turned around slowly, looking toward the main entrance.
Elena was watching him, her hazel eyes filled with tears, but she did not look away. She did not shrink back in horror.
She walked across the glass-strewn floor, her soft steps echoing through the vast space, until she stood directly in front of him.
She reached out, taking his heavy, trembling right hand in hers, and brought it gently to her cheek.
“It’s over, Roman,” she whispered softly.
May you like
Roman looked into her eyes, the cold stone surrounding his heart finally melting away completely.
“No, Elena,” Roman said, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her tightly against his chest. “It’s just beginning.”
