Chapter 5 - The Throne of Glass and Lead
The morning sun broke over Lake Michigan in a sharp, cold explosion of white light and pale pink fire.
By eight o'clock, the private landing pad on the roof of the Duca Tower was roaring with the sound of twin helicopter rotors. Three armored Mercedes sedans were idling in the subterranean court-yard, their exhaust curling into the damp autumn air like white flags of war.
I stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master dressing room, wearing a dress that had not been borrowed from a housekeeper.
It was custom-made, brought to the penthouse thirty minutes ago by a terrified seamstress from a luxury boutique on Oak Street.
Deep, rich emerald green silk—a color that made my hazel eyes look almost gold and transformed my pale skin into porcelain. The neck-line was high, cut in a clean, asymmetrical line that completely covered the white surgical dressing on my shoulder while accentuating the long, graceful curve of my neck. The fabric clung to my waist before falling in a heavy, liquid drape to my ankles.
Beside me stood Isabella Duca.
The old woman was dressed in her traditional black lace, her hair styled into a high, immaculate bun held together by two silver combs that had belonged to her grandmother in Palermo. She was watching me in the tall gilded mirror, her silver-headed cane resting between her hands.
"You don't look like a mouse today, Lena," Isabella said, her voice crisp and clear in the morning air.
"I don't feel like a mouse, Mrs. Duca," I replied, adjusting the gold cuff on my uninjured wrist. "I feel like a target."
"Good," Isabella said, a fierce, sharp smile breaking across her old face. "A target is something people have to aim at. A mouse is just something they step on without looking down."
She reached into her black velvet handbag, pulled out a heavy velvet box, and snapped it open.
Inside lay a necklace—a thick, Victorian-era choker made of platinum and set with seven massive, blood-red rubies that looked as large as pigeon eggs, surrounded by hundreds of tiny, brilliant-cut diamonds.
My breath hitched. "Mrs. Duca... no. That's..."
"This is the Blood of Palermo," Isabella said, her voice dropping into a tone of supreme, unshakeable pride. "My husband gave it to me the day Marco was born. It has been worn by the matriarch of the Duca family for eighty years. Only three women have ever touched it."
She stepped behind me, her thin, age-spotted hands surprisingly steady as she lifted the heavy platinum chain and fastened it around my neck.
The cold metal bit into my skin for a second before warming against my body. The rubies rested directly beneath my throat—a brilliant, crimson drop of light that mirrored the blood I had shed on the ballroom floor twelve hours ago.
"Why are you giving this to me?" I whispered, looking at our reflection in the glass.
"Because my son is about to walk into a room full of wolves," Isabella said, her dark eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "He is calling the Commission to the Drake Hotel at ten o'clock. Every boss from New York, Detroit, Philadelphia, and Miami will be sitting at that table. They think he is weak because his cousin tried to kill me. They think he is distracted because he spent the night with his mother's nurse."
She laid her heavy, jewel-encrusted hands on my shoulders.
"When you walk into that room wearing this necklace, Lena," Isabella whispered, "they will realize he didn't lose his edge. They will realize he found something far more dangerous than a gun."
The heavy mahogany door of the dressing room opened.
Marco stepped inside.
If he had looked dangerous in a tuxedo and terrifying in a cashmere sweater, today he looked like a god of war carved out of black marble.
He wore a three-piece suit of midnight-blue wool, tailored so perfectly it looked like an extension of his body. A crisp white shirt, a dark navy silk tie held in place by a simple silver bar, and a pair of black leather boots that clicked with absolute authority against the polished floor.
His dark hair was brushed back, his jaw was freshly shaved, and the faint white scar through his left eyebrow stood out like a mark of royalty.
He stopped three feet away, his dark eyes sweeping over me—from the emerald silk dress down to my shoes, then slowly rising back up to settle on the red rubies resting against my throat.
Something hot, thick, and utterly possessive flamed in his gaze.
"Mother," Marco spoke, his voice low and vibrating with power. "The cars are ready."
"Did you call Caruso?" Isabella asked.
"Caruso has forty men stationed around the Drake," Marco said. "The police commissioner cleared three floors of the hotel. No press. No cameras. Just the heads of the five families."
He walked over to me, stopping so close I could feel the cold, metallic scent of his expensive cologne washing over my senses.
He didn't look at his mother. He reached out, his thumb lightly touching the central ruby of the necklace, right over my thrumming pulse point.
"You look like a queen," he whispered.
"I feel like an executioner's assistant," I replied softly, holding his stare.
The corner of Marco’s mouth curved upward into that rare, dangerous half-smile that sent shivers straight down my spine.
"Same thing in this city, Lena Rose," he said.
He offered me his left arm—his elbow bent, his fore-arm solid as an iron beam.
I didn't hesitate. I reached out, resting my good hand over his dark wool sleeve, my fingers feeling the dense muscle beneath the fabric.
Isabella took his right arm, her silver cane clicking against the floor as the three of us walked out of the penthouse dressing room and into the private elevator core.
When the doors opened on the ground floor garage, fifty security guards in black suits stepped back, forming two parallel lines leading to the armored Mercedes. Every single man bowed his head as we passed—not just to Marco, not just to Isabella, but to me.
Gianni held the door of the center sedan.
Marco helped his mother inside first, then turned to me. Before I could step into the leather interior, he caught my hand, pulling me back into his chest for one brief, intense second before the guards could close around us.
"Once we walk through those doors at the Drake," Marco said, his mouth near my ear, "there is no going back. You will never be able to live a quiet life again, Lena. Your name will be written in every federal file in Washington."
I looked up into the dark, terrifying eyes of the man who had pulled three inches of glass out of my shoulder, sent his cousin to the bottom of the lake, and kissed my scar in the dark.
I reached up with my good hand, touching the cold ruby necklace at my neck, then laid my palm over his heart.
"My life wasn't quiet before I met you, Marco," I said, my voice steady, clear, and filled with a fierce, absolute truth. "It was just empty. I’d rather be a target beside you than a ghost alone in a dark room."
Marco’s hand tightened around my waist, his dark eyes blazing with a triumph so absolute it looked like fire.
"Then let's go show them who owns Chicago," he said.
May you like
He guided me into the car, slid in beside me, and closed the heavy steel door.
The armored caravan rolled out of the subterranean garage, surging into the bright, cold Chicago morning, leaving the shadows of the past behind as we rode toward the throne that had been built for us out of glass, lead, and blood.
