Chapter 2 - The Sound of the Second Shot
The gravel beneath her shoes was wet with sea mist, but she didn't slow down. Her uniform — the crisp, black-and-white dress that Madame Marquetti had forced her to wear like a badge of servitude — tore on a bramble as she slipped past the stone fountain.
Ahead of her, Aldo Falconee moved with the deceptive grace of a predator who had spent decades letting others do his killing. He was closing the distance to the main terrace. The string quartet had stopped, replaced by the low, rumbling bass of an electric cello. The guests were laughing, holding up crystal flutes of champagne, their faces turned toward the barge anchored in the bay that was about to launch the first rocket.
Clara broke through the hedge line, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her hands were still raw from scrubbing the marble floors of the grand foyer earlier that morning.
"Stop," she whispered, her voice swallowed by the swell of the music.
She wasn't supposed to be here. If Elena Marquetti — the matriarch who despised her with every fiber of her ancient, bitter soul — saw her, she would have the guards throw her into the freezing waters of the bay. Elena had made it clear: the lower classes belonged in the dirt, not breathing the same air as royalty.
Aldo reached the edge of the stone patio. He paused behind a towering marble pillar draped in white ivy. His right hand slipped inside his jacket.
Clara lunged forward, her fingers catching the hem of his expensive wool coat just as he pulled a short-barreled automatic pistol from his holster.
The movement threw his aim off by a fraction of an inch. A deafening crack split the night air, shattering the romantic atmosphere of the wedding. Instead of taking the back of Adrienne Marquetti’s skull, the bullet blew a chunk of white marble out of the pillar, sending a shower of sharp stone dust into the hair of the bride.
Screams erupted. The string quartet dissolved into chaos as guests hit the ground, spilling wine and overturning tables.
Adrienne Marquetti didn't panic. In less than a second, the mafia boss dropped into a combat stance, his body pivoting with terrifying precision. His hand went to his own shoulder holster, his eyes scanning the terrace like a hawk looking for prey.
He didn't look at the bride, or his mother, or the fleeing guests. His cold, dark eyes locked directly onto the pillar — and onto Clara, who was currently wrestling with her former employer's uncle for control of the gun.
"You stupid little bitch!" Aldo hissed, his face turning a mottled purple as he backhanded Clara across the face.
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The blow sent her sprawling onto the manicured lawn, the taste of copper flooding her mouth. But she had done enough. As Aldo raised the barrel to finish her off before turning it back toward Adrienne, a shadow fell over him.
Adrienne didn't shout a warning. He didn't ask questions. He closed the ten-foot gap between them with the speed of a striking viper, driving his heel into Aldo’s knee joint with a sickening crunch.
