Chapter 7 - The Lion’s Den
Ambrose crushed the tactical radio under his boot heel, the plastic shattering across the bloody marble floor.
Outside, the gunfire ceased as the Raldi security team secured the estate grounds.
“Vance is not acting alone,” Ambrose said, wiping his blade clean on a dark cloth.
“He is a hound dog for the Commission.”
“If they sent a hit squad to my personal estate on the same night they photographed you, they are panicking.”
Pike emerged from behind the steel security panel, his face grim.
“They will call an emergency council meeting at the Grand Continental tonight, Ambrose.”
“Don Marcone will claim you violated syndicate neutrality by harboring the bookbinder’s heir.”
Rosalind stood up, brushing plaster dust from her diner uniform.
“Then let them have me.”
“Tell them I am just a waitress who knows nothing.”
Ambrose looked at her, his jaw set like carved granite.
“If you walk out that door as a waitress, Vance will put a bullet in your head before you reach the sidewalk.”
“The only place you are safe tonight is at my side, as the Boss’s wife.”
Two hours later, Rosalind stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror in the master bedroom.
The grease-stained diner apron was gone.
In its place was a floor-length emerald silk gown that hugged her curves and hid the faded burn scars running up her left arm.
Her dark hair was pinned up with antique diamond clips, exposing the slender line of her neck.
On her left hand, the heavy gold band gleamed beneath the vanity lights.
Ambrose stepped into the room behind her, fastening the cufflinks of his bespoke black tuxedo.
He stopped, his eyes sweeping over her reflection with an intensity that made the skin on her bare shoulders prickle.
“You look like you were born to rule this city,” he murmured.
“I look like a target,” she retorted, though her voice lacked conviction.
Ambrose fastened a platinum necklace around her throat, his cold fingers brushing against her pulse point.
“Remember the rules when we enter the ballroom.”
“You do not look away from anyone.”
“You do not answer their questions about the ledger.”
“And whenever someone mentions your father, you smile and let me speak.”
A motorcade of three armored black limousines carried them into the heart of downtown Providence.
The Grand Continental Hotel was an opulent, gilded skyscraper where the city’s criminal elite conducted business under crystal chandeliers.
Armed security guards in black suits lined the marble staircase as Ambrose offered his arm to Rosalind.
She took it, feeling the corded muscle beneath his jacket.
As the heavy double doors swung open, the murmuring crowd of dozens of influential men and women fell completely silent.
Every pair of eyes locked onto the waitress from Dover’s Diner.
An elderly man with silver hair and a walking stick adorned with an ivory skull stepped forward from the center of the room.
Don Marcone smiled, showing gold-capped teeth.
“Ambrose, my boy.”
“We heard a rumor that you took a bride in the middle of the night.”
Marcone reached out, taking Rosalind’s left hand with an exaggerated, mock-courtesy gesture.
He bent to kiss her knuckles, but his eyes stayed locked on the ring.
Then Marcone’s smile froze into a cruel, knowing grimace.
May you like
“Tell me, Ambrose,” Marcone whispered, loud enough for the nearest capos to hear.
“Does your new little bride know that this exact ring was cut off the dead finger of your first fiancée before you threw her into the harbor?”
