The waitress passed a note to the mafia boss — "Your fiancée has set a trap. Leave now." Spotlight8

Showtime at the Gala

The drive to the city was tense. The gala was held at the Pierre Hotel, and security was tighter than the Pentagon.

When the limousine pulled up, the paparazzi were already swarming as flashbulbs popped like gunfire.

“Put on your mask,”

Lorenzo said, handing her a delicate lace mask. He donned his own—a black Venetian domino mask.

“Stay close to me,”

he murmured.

“If you feel afraid, squeeze my arm. Do not look down. Look them in the eye. You are above them.”

The chauffeur opened the door. The moment Lorenzo stepped out, a hush fell over the crowd, followed by chaos.

“Moretti! Is that Moretti? I thought he was dead!”

Lorenzo ignored them. He reached a hand back into the car.

Barber took it and stepped out, the velvet dress catching the light as the sapphire on her finger blazed. Lorenzo pulled her flush against his side, his arm wrapping around her waist like a steel band.

He guided her up the red carpet, walking with a predatory grace. Inside the ballroom, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Hundreds of people in masks, the elite of the criminal underworld, were there. The air smelled of expensive champagne and secrets.

When the announcer declared “Lorenzo Moretti and guest,” the music actually stopped. Every head turned.

Across the room, standing near the orchestra, was Dante Russo. He was holding a glass of champagne, laughing with a corrupt senator.

When he saw Lorenzo, the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the marble floor. Lorenzo smiled—a cruel, shark-like smile.

He leaned down to Barber.

“Showtime.”

He walked her straight through the center of the room as the crowd parted like the Red Sea. They walked right up to Dante Russo.

Dante was pale, his eyes darting to the exits.

“Enzo,”

Dante stammered.

“We—we heard terrible news. A tragedy.”

“Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated,”

Lorenzo drawled.

He reached out and plucked a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter, handing it to Barber.

“And who is this?”

Dante asked, his eyes fixing on Barber. He looked at the ring, and his eyes widened.

“That’s the Moretti heirloom.”

“This is Barber,”

Lorenzo said, his voice loud enough for the nearby tables to hear.

“My future wife.”

Gasps rippled through the room.

“Wife?”

Dante choked out.

“But Bianca—”

“Bianca decided to take an extended vacation,”

Lorenzo said, his eyes boring into Dante’s.

“She realized she wasn’t cut out for this life. She was too duplicitous. I prefer a woman with loyalty, a woman who knows how to spot a trap.”

Dante’s face turned gray. He knew that Lorenzo knew everything.

“Enjoy the party, Dante,”

Lorenzo said, clapping the rival boss on the shoulder hard enough to bruise.

“It might be your last.”

A Waltz and a War Zone

Lorenzo steered Barber onto the dance floor as the orchestra began a waltz.

“You did perfectly,”

Lorenzo whispered as he pulled her close.

Barber was trembling.

“He looked like he wanted to kill me.”

“He is terrified of you,”

Lorenzo corrected.

“Because he doesn’t know who you are. The unknown is the scariest thing to men like us.”

They moved together. Barber had never danced a waltz, but Lorenzo led her with such absolute control she didn’t need to know the steps—she just had to surrender.

His hand on her back was hot, and the smell of him—sandalwood and danger—filled her senses. For a moment, the room faded away.

It was just the two of them. She looked up into his stormy eyes behind the mask.

“You’re good at this,”

she whispered.

“Lying.”

Lorenzo stopped spinning. He pulled her closer until her chest was pressed against his.

“I am not lying about everything,”

he murmured. He looked at her lips.

The tension was electric.

“The ring looks good on you, Barber. Too good.”

Suddenly, the lights in the ballroom flickered. Lorenzo’s head snapped up, and his body went rigid against hers.

“Stay behind me,”

he ordered, his voice dropping an octave.

“What—what is it?”

“The music stopped,”

Lorenzo said.

“But the orchestra is still playing.”

He was right. The musicians were moving their bows, but the sound coming out was a pre-recorded loop.

The real musicians were gone.

“It’s a setup,”

Lorenzo hissed.

“Dante has a Plan B.”

Crack! A single shot rang out, shattering the chandelier above the center of the room. Screams erupted as the crowd stampeded.

Lorenzo didn’t run. He grabbed Barber, swept her off her feet, and dove behind a heavy marble pillar just as automatic gunfire shredded the space where they had been standing.

Lorenzo muttered, pulling a handgun from the back of his waistband. He looked at Barber, his eyes wild with adrenaline.

“Do you trust me?”

Barber looked at the gun, then at him.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Wrong answer,”

Lorenzo grinned—a reckless, dangerous grin.

“But it will do.”

The Fight for Survival

The ballroom was a killbox. Smoke grenades hissed across the floor, filling the opulent space with thick gray fog.

The screams of the elite were drowned out by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of suppressed submachine guns. Lorenzo pressed Barber against the cold marble of the pillar.

“Listen to me closely!”

he shouted over the noise.

“Dante locked the doors. He’s going to burn this whole place down to get to me. He doesn’t care about the collateral damage.”

“What do we do?”

Barber cried, clutching his lapel.

“We hunt!”

Lorenzo said.

He peaked around the pillar, fired two shots, and ducked back as debris exploded near his head.

“Marcus!”

Lorenzo yelled into his cufflinks, a hidden comms device.

“Boss, we’re at the north entrance. They blocked it with a truck. We’re blowing it now. Two minutes.”

“Two minutes is too long,”