Chapter 7 - THE DEVIL'S WALTZ
Z
The transformation was absolute. By 8:00 PM, the blood-soaked, tactical-gear-wearing assassin who had stabbed a man in a restaurant kitchen no longer existed. In her place stood a high-society socialite, draped in a stunning, floor-length emerald green gown that Vincent had procured through one of his underground tailors. The silk clung to my frame, elegant and deceptive, hiding the two compact, suppressed SIG Sauer pistols strapped securely to my thighs beneath the slit in the dress. My hair was swept up into an immaculate twist, my lips painted a deep, blood-red.
Vincent looked equally unrecognizable. Despite his bandaged shoulder, he wore a bespoke black tuxedo that fit him like armor. He carried no visible weapons, relying entirely on the aura of power he projected, and the small, deadly blade concealed in his watch face. We looked like a wealthy, influential couple arriving to celebrate the new king of Boston, hiding in plain sight.
The grand ballroom of the Copley Hotel was a masterpiece of gilded excess. Massive crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the sea of politicians, corrupt judges, and mob capos mingling below. A string quartet played softly in the corner, masking the dark, violent undertones of the gathering. Men in expensive suits whispered in corners, dividing up the city's territories, while Julian’s heavily armed guards, dressed discreetly as hotel security, monitored every exit.
We entered through the side service doors, blending seamlessly with the crowd. The tension in my chest was a coiled spring. Every step I took on the marble floor felt like stepping through a minefield.
"Stay close," Vincent murmured, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, guiding me through the throng of people. His touch was warm, possessive, a silent anchor in a room full of sharks. "Julian will take the stage at nine. He’s going to make a speech. He’s going to ask for a toast. That’s when the guards will be focused on him, not the crowd."
"And the snipers?" I whispered, smiling pleasantly at a passing judge whom I knew took bribes from the syndicate.
"Balcony, left and right," Vincent replied without moving his lips. "I see three. You?"
"Four," I corrected. "There’s one disguised as a technician near the lighting rig. I’ll take the right side and the technician. You take the left."
We moved slowly toward the front of the stage, sipping champagne that tasted like battery acid on my nervous tongue. As the clock neared nine, a hush fell over the crowd. The string quartet stopped playing. The heavy velvet curtains on the stage parted, and Julian Costanza stepped out into the spotlight.
He looked like a king. The crowd erupted into applause, the sycophants and the terrified alike clapping for the resurrected ghost. Julian smiled, raising a hand to silence them. He stepped up to the microphone, his dark eyes scanning the room, oozing a terrifying charisma.
"Friends. Family. Partners," Julian began, his voice echoing through the massive ballroom. "For five years, you believed I was ash. You believed the Costanza family had fallen into the hands of a blunt instrument, a man who ruled through fear and brutality, rather than vision."
He paused, letting the insult linger in the air. Beside me, Vincent’s jaw was clamped so tight I thought it might shatter, but his expression remained a mask of polite interest.
"But tonight," Julian continued, raising a glass of champagne, "order is restored. The syndicate returns to its rightful path. A path of prosperity, of political immunity, of unmatched power. Tonight, we do not just rule the underworld. We rule Boston."
The crowd cheered, raising their glasses. Julian beamed, drinking in their adoration. He felt entirely untouchable. He believed he had won the war without fighting a single battle.
Vincent turned to me, his eyes burning with a cold, unholy fire. "Now."
I didn't hesitate. I dropped my champagne glass. As it shattered against the marble floor, I reached through the slit in my emerald gown, drawing both pistols with lightning speed. The heavy suppressors made them look terrifyingly lethal in the elegant setting. The crowd hadn't even registered the sound of the breaking glass before I raised the weapons.
I didn't aim at Julian. I aimed up.
Pfft. Pfft.
Two suppressed shots echoed softly under the cheers of the crowd. The sniper on the right balcony slumped over the railing, his rifle tumbling down to the floor below. The technician near the lighting rig jerked backward, collapsing into the darkness.
Before the guards could even process where the shots came from, Vincent stepped forward, pushing through the front row of capos. He stepped into the golden light of the stage, shedding his anonymity like a heavy cloak.
The silence that hit the ballroom was instantaneous and absolute. It was the silence of a vacuum, of all oxygen being sucked from the room.
May you like
Julian’s smile froze. The glass of champagne in his hand trembled, slipping from his fingers and shattering on the stage. The ghost had returned, but he wasn't the only one back from the dead.
"Hello, brother," Vincent said, his voice carrying perfectly across the dead silent room. "You threw a party for my funeral. It’s a shame I couldn't RSVP."
