Chapter Six: The Treaty Table
The second gala should have been canceled.
Dominic refused.
Skylar called it insanity.
He called it strategy.
That was mafia for insanity.
The treaty signing took place twenty-four hours later in the ballroom. No music this time. No champagne. No false charity.
Only men in suits, women in diamonds, and enough concealed weapons to end a city block.
Skylar did not wear the maid uniform.
Carmela sent a red dress.
The note came with it.
A queen does not apologize for taking space.
Skylar almost returned it.
Then she put it on.
Deep red. Long sleeves. Fitted waist. High neck. Elegant enough for war. The bandage on her cheek remained visible.
Let them look.
Dominic saw her enter.
His expression did not change.
His hand tightened around the edge of the treaty table.
That was enough.
Lorenzo Moretti sat across from him, silver-haired and smiling like a grandfather in a courtroom.
“Dr. Gallagher,” he said.
The room stirred.
Skylar walked to Dominic’s side.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“I thought you were retired.”
“I was buried incorrectly.”
Dominic’s mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Lorenzo’s smile thinned.
“Shall we sign?”
A gold fountain pen rested between the treaty papers.
Too beautiful.
Too convenient.
Skylar picked it up with a folded napkin.
Dominic went still.
“Lovely pen,” she said.
Lorenzo’s eyes changed.
Just enough.
Skylar uncapped it.
A tiny spring needle sat hidden beneath the clip.
The room inhaled.
“Vesper-9 delivery system,” Skylar said. “Elegant. Cowardly.”
Dominic looked at Lorenzo.
The temperature dropped.
“You came into my house with poison twice.”
Lorenzo leaned back.
“Your house has many doors.”
Skylar looked at Matteo, standing behind Dominic.
Matteo’s face was pale.
His right hand hovered near his cuff.
There.
Foreshadow turned into proof.
Skylar set the pen on a silver plate.
“Search the witness cufflinks.”
Matteo stepped back.
Dominic turned slowly.
“Matteo.”
The underboss froze.
No one breathed.
Then chaos broke.
A Moretti captain grabbed a pistol. Rossi guards moved. Guests screamed and dropped behind tables.
Matteo lunged for the side exit.
Skylar saw the gold cufflink on his wrist.
Not decorative.
Weaponized.
“Do not let him touch anyone!”
Dominic moved toward Matteo.
Lorenzo rose from the table, smiling.
A shot cracked from somewhere above.
Wood splintered near Skylar’s shoulder.
Dominic seized her and shoved her behind the overturned treaty table.
His body covered hers.
Blood bloomed under his shirt.
“Your stitches,” she snapped.
“Bad timing.”
“Terrible patient.”
A second shot struck the balcony rail.
Lorenzo had climbed the stairs during the confusion, pistol in hand.
He aimed down at Dominic.
Skylar saw the pistol on the floor near her knee.
She grabbed it.
Dominic’s voice was harsh.
“No.”
Skylar did not aim for Lorenzo.
She aimed for the brass rail beside his hand.
The bullet struck metal.
Sparks snapped.
Lorenzo recoiled, slipping on broken glass. The chandelier chain above him, already damaged by the earlier shot, jerked loose from its pulley.
The chandelier dropped halfway.
Not on him.
Near him.
Enough to trap him behind a wall of crystal and fear.
Dominic stared at Skylar.
She dropped the gun.
“I am still a doctor.”
Then Matteo screamed.
Skylar turned.
His poisoned cufflink had pierced his own wrist in the struggle.
He collapsed to the marble, convulsing.
Skylar ran toward him.
Dominic bled behind her.
She hated that she left him.
She did it anyway.
Triage was not romance.
It was truth.
