Chapter 7 - The Traitor’s Gambit
The Grand Hotel was a masterpiece of gilded columns, marble staircases, and velvet drapes.
By 11:00 a.m., the grand ballroom on the third floor was filled with forty of the city's most powerful underground bosses, syndicate representatives, and corrupt politicians, all drinking champagne under massive crystal chandeliers.
At the head of the long mahogany table sat Julian Bianchi.
Julian was younger than Roman, with slicked-back blonde hair, wearing a flashy light gray suit. He was smiling broadly, accepting congratulations from various captains who believed Roman had died of his injuries in a ditch three days ago.
"Members of the Council," Julian announced, standing up and tapping his champagne glass with a silver spoon. "As we mourn the tragic... and sudden... disappearance of my brother Roman, we must look to the future."
I watched from the second-floor service balcony, dressed in a sleek black hotel staff uniform, a hidden earpiece tucked discreetly beneath my hair.
"Julian is taking the floor," I whispered into the collar microphone hidden in my collar. "He's opening the vote for supreme leadership."
"Copy that, Nora," Frank's voice crackled softly through my earpiece from the basement laundry chute. "Roman is in position on the service stairs. Hold your ground."
Down in the ballroom, Julian raised his glass higher, his smile turning wicked.
"Roman was weak," Julian declared to the silent room. "He let street thugs dictate terms. He refused to expand our narcotics distribution. Under my leadership, the Bianchi family will double its revenue within six months."
"Is that so, brother?" a voice echoed through the high-ceilinged room.
The heavy brass double doors of the ballroom slammed open.
The entire room gasped in collective horror.
Roman Bianchi stepped into the ballroom.
He was dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit, his posture towering, his dark eyes burning with lethal fury. Behind him stood Frank and ten heavily armed security operatives carrying suppressed rifles.
Julian dropped his champagne glass. It shattered against the marble floor, the sharp sound echoing through the dead silence.
"You..." Julian stammered, his face turning the color of chalk. "You're... Marcus said you were dead!"
"Marcus lied," Roman said smoothly, stepping slowly down the center aisle toward the main table, his hands tucked casually into his suit pockets. "Just like you lied to the Council when you said our father wanted you to take over."
Two of Julian's hired mercenaries reached for their weapons near the perimeter walls.
Pfft-pfft!
Frank fired twice from the doorway. Both mercenaries collapsed heavily into the velvet drapes before their guns could even clear their holsters.
The remaining council members scrambled backward, raising their hands in absolute surrender, desperate to distance themselves from the traitor.
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"You think you can just walk in here and take it back?!" Julian shrieked, backing away toward the raised dais, his composure crumbling into pathetic desperation. He reached into his coat and pulled out a silver revolver, aiming it wildly at Roman's chest. "I built this deal! The city belongs to me now!"
"Put the gun down, Julian," Roman said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register as he stopped ten feet from his brother. "You were always a terrible shot."
