Chapter 23 - The Grand Atlantic
The Grand Atlantic Hotel on the South Boston waterfront was an ancient, twelve-story monument of Beaux-Arts limestone and blackened bronze. Due to seasonal renovations, the building was shrouded in scaffolding and plastic sheeting, its towering facade dark save for the illuminated windows of the twelfth-floor grand ballroom.
At 8:45 p.m., our black armored Maybach glided through the deserted circular drive, accompanied by two trailing Suburbans carrying six elite, plain-clothes operators under Salvatore’s command.
"Perimeter protocols are locked, Boss," Salvatore’s voice crackled through the radio. "We have counter-snipers on the parking structure across the avenue. If a window shatters on twelve, we breach with tactical gas in forty seconds."
"Hold the perimeter unless I give the sequence, Salvatore," Mateo answered calmly.
He stepped out into the freezing sleet, opening the rear door, extending his arm with exquisite, aristocratic grace.
I stepped down onto the slush-covered marble steps.
I wore an off-the-shoulder, bespoke evening gown of deep emerald velvet that fell in heavy, sculpted folds to my heels, celebrating my curves with unapologetic majesty. Around my throat rested the ancient diamond-and-sapphire choker of the Vera family, and my dark hair was swept into an intricate, braided crown. Beside me, Mateo looked like an ancient warlord draped in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo, an aura of lethal power radiating from his broad shoulders.
The private express elevator rose twelve floors in absolute silence.
When the gilded brass doors slid open, we stepped into the cavernous, vaulted expanse of the Grand Atlantic Ballroom.
Crystal chandeliers hung beneath the seventy-foot plaster ceiling, their light dimmed to a soft, amber glow. The room smelled of expensive cigar smoke, aged cognac, and old brass. Standing along the perimeter walls, positioned at ten-foot intervals, were twelve armed mercenaries wearing tailored dark suits, their hands folded over their waists, concealing submachine guns.
In the center of the vast, polished parquet floor sat a single, round dining table draped in pristine white damask linen.
Sitting at the far side of the table, sipping an amber digestive from a crystal snifter, was Don Camillo Cross.
He was seventy-two years old, with thick, silver hair combed back from a weathered, hawkish face. He wore an immaculate bespoke charcoal wool suit cut in the vintage Milanese fashion, an antique gold signet ring resting on his pinky. His dark eyes—the exact same predatory, calculating eyes as his dead niece Vivienne—locked onto us with glacial, unblinking intensity.
Beside him stood an empty chair. Opposite him were two settings of antique silver and bone china.
"Mateo Vera," Camillo spoke, his voice deep, raspy, carrying the heavy, aristocratic cadence of the Palermo hills. "You took your time."
Mateo did not rush. He guided me across the dance floor with measured, deliberate strides, pulled out the heavy mahogany chair for me with gentle care, and took his seat beside me without glancing at the armed guards along the walls.
"You have five minutes to state your business, Camillo," Mateo said, resting his forearms casually against the linen. "Before I have the city building inspector condemn this property and bury you in the basement."
Camillo let out a dry, rattling chuckle that died in the cold air.
May you like
He ignored Mateo entirely. He turned his hooded, serpentine gaze onto me, looking at my emerald gown, my diamond choker, and the steady, fearless fire burning in my hazel eyes.
"So," Camillo whispered, leaning forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "This is the little kitchen girl who thought she could execute a daughter of the Cross dynasty."
