As I reach the cluster where Don De Santi and Don Ramirez stand, filled with a palpable air of tension around them. She stands slightly behind them, her face partially obscured by the shifting bodies, but her form, her hair... it is a stronger match now. Then, the shift currents of the ballroom air carries it, the faint trace of a scent. Not the overwhelming citrus-spice-jasmine of Gabriel's daughter's expensive perfume, but something else. A colder, more metallic undertone beneath a similar floral base. Distinct, yet tantalizingly close to the memory. The unique signature from the club.
"Don De Santi," I greet, my voice cordial but firm, my gaze cutting to the woman. "Don Ramirez. A truly unexpected pleasure."
Don De Santi, looking uncomfortable, bows slightly. "Don De Luna. My apologies for my... associate's lack of formal introduction." He gestures vaguely at the woman. "This is... she is an associate. Here to discuss... trade agreements." His voice sounds strained.
My eyes narrow further. "Trade agreements?" I take a deliberate step closer to the woman. I scrutinize her, my gaze sweeping over her face, her hands, searching for anything. Her face is pale, a stark contrast to her dark hair. Her eyes, I notice, are a chilling, ocean blue . Not just any blue. And her scent... it is stronger here, undeniable. That unique, almost sterile sweetness. It screams Butterfly.
"I believe we have a different kind of agreement to discuss, Don De Santi," I say, my voice dropping, a silken thread of ice. "One regarding an assassination attempt. A failed one, I might add."
The atmosphere in the immediate vicinity freezes. De Santi's face pales, his jaw clenching. Ramirez, however, remains unnervingly calm, a slight, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"Don De Luna, I assure you—" De Santi begins, his voice trembling.
"Silence!" My voice cracks like a whip, drawing gasps from nearby guests. I ignore them. My eyes are locked on the woman. I can almost taste the unique chemical signature of her perfume mingling with something sharper, something almost metallic beneath. She doesn't flinch. She just stares back, her ocean blue eyes cold and unyielding.
This is her. My earlier doubt about Gabriel's daughter evaporates, replaced by absolute, chilling certainty. The scent is too strong, too perfect a match. The unreadable stillness in her eyes is exactly what I remember. The disguise. Now this black hair, the build—it all clicks.
"You have the audacity to come into my home," I growl, my voice a low, dangerous rumble, meant only for those in our immediate circle. "You have the effrontery to mock my recovery." I take another step, closing the distance to her.
Suddenly, her hand moves, a blur of motion. Towards a weapon, a small, concealed blade. She tries to point it in my direction.
"No, you don't!" I roar, my hand moving like lightning. I slam my palm against her neck, twisting, and in the same fluid motion, ram her back against the nearest wall with brutal force. A dull thud echoes, and her head cracks hard against the plaster. The sudden, violent action freezes the entire ballroom. Murmuring erupts, a wave of stunned gasps and bewildered whispers.
De Santi's face contorts, and his men, loyal despite their fear, immediately draw their weapons, a glint of cold steel in the chandelier light. But before they can even aim, Marek, Rigo, and figures of the Bratva men—Dimitri Volkov's loyal enforcers—step forward, weapons appearing in their hands within swift seconds. Their silent, unyielding presence suppresses De Santi's men, pinning them with sheer force of numbers and reputation. They are outmatched.
I glance at Don Ramirez. His smirk has vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating assessment. He signals subtly to his own men, and they remain still, neutral, leaving De Santi isolated. Betrayal.
De Santi, seeing himself outmaneuvered, his men frozen, finally finds his voice, shaking with a mix of fury and terror. "Don De Luna! What is the meaning of this barbaric behavior?! Are you mad?!"
I ignore his pathetic bluster. My gaze is her, pinned against the wall, her blue eyes wide now, a flicker of panic. My grip on her throat is like iron, cutting off her breath. "You dare come into my home, assassin?" I hiss, my voice a venomous whisper, meant only for her.
I release her neck just enough for her to gasp for air, then spin her, throwing her roughly onto the floor. "Enzo!" I bark, my voice echoing with a chilling authority. "Make her speak."
From the shadows, Enzo, steps forward. His eyes are cold, devoid of mercy. He kneels beside her, ignoring her choked gasps. I watch, a savage satisfaction beginning to build in my gut as he takes her hand, deliberately twisting. A sickening crack echoes through the stunned silence of the ballroom. Butterfly lets out a strangled cry, quickly stifled.
"Who sent you?" I demand, my voice calm, almost conversational, a terrifying contrast to the violence unfolding.
De Santi, seeing the bone-deep agony, finally breaks. His eyes dart between the writhing woman and my unflinching face. "Stop! Please! I... I was planning an attempt! Not her alone! I contacted a syndicate! She was meant to be the one!" He sobs, his confession tearing through the silence.
A collective gasp roars through the room. Whispers explode, a flurry of shock and outrage directed at De Santi. Gabriel, I notice, stiffens, his eyes widening as he takes in the confession. His daughter, too, her eyes fixed on the scene, watches with a strange, unreadable intensity.
Enzo continues his work. Another crack as Shadow's leg is twisted. She slumps against the ground, breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, her body already going limp.
I turn from her broken form, grabbing De Santi's face in a vice-like grip. His eyes are wide with terror, tears streaming down his cheeks. "So, you confess, old man?" My voice is a low, dangerous rumble. "You dared to strike against me?"
"Don De Luna! Enough! Remember your best friend's wishes!" Dimitri Volkov's deep voice booms, stepping forward, his massive frame imposing even for me. "Do not spill so much blood on your birthday. Not here."
I look at Gon. He nods, his face grim, but his eyes hold a silent agreement with Dimitri. A public execution here would upset the delicate balance of power, even for me.
"Very well," I concede, my grip still on De Santi's jaw. "But a warning must be made." I release him, and he slumps to the floor. "Enzo! Take him. Cut off his fingers—one for each member of my family he tried to harm. Then, take him to the theater. He will live out his days there, a constant reminder of the price of ambition with his assets stripped from him."
A fresh wave of gasps, but no one dares to challenge the order. De Santi's screams begin even before my men drag him away.
I turn, my gaze sweeping across the stunned faces of the other family heads, the foreign Dons, and my own men. My voice projects, filled with power, charisma, and chilling intelligence, my aura as a Don dominating the entire ballroom.
"Let this be a warning to all present," I declare, my voice ringing with authority. "This is what happens to those who dream too big. To those who mistake recovery for weakness. To those who dare to cross the De Luna family. This is my home. This is my territory. And any perceived challenge will be met with swift, overwhelming, and utterly merciless retribution. I will not be giving another warning."
My gaze falls, slowly, deliberately, on Gabriel's daughter. Her eyes are still fixed on me, wide and unblinking. I shift my gaze to Gabriel, who stands rigidly beside her, his face pale. Then, my eyes returned to his daughter.
I stare at her—the more I stare, my hunger for her, my need to swallow her whole, an annoying burning intensity in my gaze increases.