Chapter 5 - THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
The dining room descended into absolute chaos.
Guests screamed, scrambling backward over overturned chairs, desperate to escape the sight of Bianca bleeding on the white marble.
Dante ignored them. He pulled Lucy tightly against his chest, burying her face in his shoulder so she couldn't see the blood pooling on the floor.
Grace had dropped to her knees. She ripped off her white apron and pressed it firmly against the gunshot wound in Bianca’s chest.
“S-stay awake,” Grace pleaded, her stutter returning as the adrenaline crashed into pure panic. “Help is c-coming.”
Bianca gasped for air, her red lips stained with blood. She looked up at the young maid she had tormented all evening. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a profound, agonizing regret.
“I’m… sorry,” Bianca choked out, her fingers weakly grasping Grace’s wrist. “He… he made us do it.”
“Who?” Dante demanded, kneeling beside them, keeping Lucy shielded behind his broad back. “Who made your father plant the watch?”
Bianca’s eyes fluttered, searching the room. Her gaze bypassed Dante and landed directly on the man standing in the doorway with the smoking gun.
She raised a trembling, bloodstained finger and pointed.
“Him,” she whispered.
Then, her eyes rolled back, and she went completely still.
Dante slowly stood up.
The room went dead silent.
Silvio stood in the doorway, his tall, broad-shouldered frame blocking the only exit. The jagged scar along his jawline twitched. He didn't lower his gun. Instead, he slowly aimed the barrel directly at Dante’s chest.
“Put the girl down, Dante,” Silvio said, his gravelly voice echoing in the quiet room.
Dante didn’t move. The betrayal felt like a physical knife twisting in his gut. Silvio had been by his side for twenty years. They had bled together. They had buried Matteo together.
“You,” Dante said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You killed my brother.”
Silvio didn’t flinch. “Matteo was weak. He wanted to legitimize the family. He wanted to start paying taxes, opening charity funds. We are wolves, Dante. Matteo wanted us to become sheep dogs. I couldn't let him destroy our empire.”
“So you ran an innocent woman off the road?” Dante asked, his eyes flickering toward Grace. “You orphaned a child just to cover your tracks?”
Silvio shrugged, a cold, empty gesture. “Grace’s mother was a loose end. And tonight, Arthur Sterling was supposed to plant the watch in a rival boss’s coat. It would have started a war that would have made us millions. But Bianca was too stupid. She panicked, took the watch, and planted it on the maid instead.”
Silvio smiled, a cruel twist of his scarred lips.
“It doesn’t matter now. I’ll just tell the Commission that Arthur Sterling assassinated you, and I killed him in retaliation. I take over the family. The business continues.”
“You think my loyal men will follow you?” Dante sneered.
“They already do,” Silvio replied.
He whistled sharply.
The six security guards stationed around the dining room—men Dante had personally trained—suddenly raised their weapons. But they didn't aim at Silvio. They aimed at Dante.
Dante was completely surrounded.
“Step away from the child, Dante,” Silvio ordered, stepping further into the room. “I don’t want to shoot her. But I will if you make me.”
Dante tightened his arms around Lucy. He calculated the angles, the distances, the number of guns. He was fast, but he wasn't fast enough to stop seven bullets.
Suddenly, Grace stood up.
Her hands were covered in Bianca’s blood, but she didn’t tremble. She stepped directly between Dante and Silvio’s gun.
“M-move out of the way, little girl,” Silvio warned, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve already lived fifteen years longer than you were supposed to.”
Grace stared at the jagged scar on his jawline.
Her breath hitched. A memory, long buried by childhood trauma, suddenly clawed its way to the surface of her mind.
Fifteen years ago. The night her mother’s car was run off the dark, rainy highway. Grace had been seven years old, strapped into the backseat. She remembered the crunch of metal. The breaking glass. And then, she remembered the man who had walked up to the wrecked car.
He had pulled her mother from the driver’s seat. And when the lightning flashed, Grace had seen his face.
She had seen the fresh, bleeding cut along his jaw.
The cut that had healed into a jagged scar.
“It was y-you,” Grace whispered, her eyes wide with horrifying realization. “I r-remember you. You t-took something from my m-mother’s neck.”
Silvio’s cold demeanor cracked for a fraction of a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You t-took her necklace,” Grace said, her voice growing stronger, fueled by a decade of repressed grief. “A silver cross with a hidden compartment. You left me in the car to d-die, but you took the necklace.”
Dante looked at Silvio. “What was in the necklace, Silvio?”
Silvio’s jaw tightened. “Nothing. Just a ledger microdot. I destroyed it years ago.”
But Grace shook her head. “No, you d-didn’t. Because my m-mother knew you were following us. She switched it b-before the crash.”
Silvio froze. The gun in his hand wavered slightly. “Switched it with what?”
Grace reached into the collar of her modest white blouse. She pulled out a delicate silver chain. Hanging from it was a small, ornate silver cross.
“She put the r-real one on me,” Grace said. “She told me n-never to take it off. I’ve worn it every day for f-fifteen years.”
Silvio’s eyes locked onto the silver cross.
The microdot. The ultimate proof of his embezzlement, his murders, his entire web of lies. It had been walking around inside Dante’s house, worn by the maid, for years.
“Give it to me,” Silvio demanded, stepping forward, his finger tightening on the trigger.
“No,” Grace said.
Before Silvio could react, Grace grabbed the delicate silver chain and yanked it hard. The clasp broke.
With all her might, Grace threw the silver cross across the massive dining room.
It flew through the air, glinting under the chandeliers, and landed squarely in the blazing marble fireplace at the far end of the room.
May you like
Silvio screamed in sheer panic. He lunged away from Dante, diving toward the fireplace to save the only thing that could destroy his empire.
And in that singular moment of distraction, Dante moved.
