Chapter 11 - The Scent of Smoke
The five years of peace had lulled me into a beautiful, fragile illusion. I had almost forgotten that the Valenti name was built on blood, not just concrete and real estate contracts. The reminder came on a rainy Tuesday evening, during a charity gala Enzo was hosting to fund a new children's hospital. I was standing by the champagne tower, watching my husband charm a group of city councilmen. He looked relaxed, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed. But then Marco stepped into the ballroom, his face pale and his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles twitched. He didn't say a word, but the look he gave Enzo was a language of its own. Enzo excused himself instantly, the warm smile vanishing from his face as if it had never existed. I set my crystal glass down on a passing tray and followed them out into the private hallway. "What is it?" I asked, my voice echoing in the quiet corridor. Enzo turned to me, instinctively reaching out to pull me against his side. "Victor Russo," Enzo said, the name sounding like poison on his tongue. "He left a gift in the coatroom." I looked past Enzo's broad shoulder and saw Dante standing over a small, wooden crate. The crate was completely ruined, stained with a dark, sticky substance that smelled metallic and foul. Inside was the severed head of a black wolf—the traditional symbol of the Valenti family. My stomach violently flipped, and I pressed a hand over my mouth. "Russo is a ghost from Chicago," Enzo explained, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "He thinks because I build hospitals now, my teeth have gone dull." He pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped a speck of blood off the polished marble floor. "He thinks I am weak because I chose peace." I looked up at the man who had burned an entire rival family to the ground just to keep me safe. "He has absolutely no idea who he is dealing with," I whispered fiercely.
