Chapter 8 - The Final Gambit
“Falcone!” Marcus Vance’s voice cut sharply through the gentle murmur of the ballroom strings, drawing the startled attention of every elite guest within a fifty-foot radius.
Damian didn't flinch. He didn't even turn his shoulders. He simply placed one hand lightly on Martha’s lower back, guiding her slightly behind him as Marcus marched up, shaking with rage.
“You ruined me!” Marcus snarled, his face twisted into an ugly mask of desperation as he thrust his glowing smartphone toward Damian’s chest. “Federal agents just raided my warehouses in Providence! They seized every cargo manifest, every financial record—everything! You set me up!”
The surrounding guests gasped, stepping back hastily to clear a wide circle around the confrontation. Security guards from both sides converged on the center of the room, their hands hovering dangerously near their holsters.
Damian looked down at Marcus’s frantic face with utter, freezing detachment.
“You tried to assassinate me in my own home, Marcus,” Damian said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent ballroom. “And you partnered with a traitor inside my ranks to smuggle contraband through my ports. Did you honestly think I was going to send you a thank-you note?”
“I’ll burn you down!” Marcus screamed, his hand diving instinctively inside his tuxedo jacket toward a concealed sidearm.
The movement was fast, but Martha and Damian were faster.
Before Marcus’s fingers could even clear his jacket lining, Damian’s hand shot out like a striking viper, gripping Marcus’s wrist with bone-crushing force and twisting it upward. At the exact same second, Sarah Vance materialized from the crowd, kicking Marcus’s knee out from behind with clinical precision.
Marcus let out a sharp cry of pain as he crashed hard onto the polished marble floor, his dropped pistol sliding across the tiles toward Martha’s feet.
Martha calmly stepped forward, placing the heel of her designer shoe squarely on top of the weapon.
The ballroom was dead silent. You could hear the distant roar of the ocean waves crashing against the Newport cliffs outside.
Sarah stepped in with a pair of heavy tactical zip-ties, binding Marcus’s wrists behind his back with practiced efficiency as he cursed violently into the floor.
“联邦特警 (Federal agents) are waiting at the service exit, boss,” Sarah reported quietly, hauling Marcus up by his collar and dragging him toward the private elevators. “Let’s escort our guest out before he ruins the hors d'oeuvres.”
As the elevator doors closed on Marcus’s furious, red-faced shouting, the tension in the grand ballroom slowly dissipated. The string quartet tentatively resumed playing, and guests nervously pretended nothing had happened, turning back to their champagne flutes with nervous whispers.
Damian let out a slow, controlled breath, running a hand through his dark hair. He looked down at Martha, who was still standing with her foot resting casually on the confiscated pistol.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Damian’s face—a warm, completely unguarded expression that nobody in the Boston underworld had ever witnessed.
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“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Ms. Bellini,” Damian said, his voice rich with amusement.
Martha smiled back, stepping off the weapon and kicking it toward a lingering security guard. “You already are on my bad side, Mr. Falcone. I’m just letting you make up for it.”
