Chapter 3 - The Shattered Flute
The grand mezzanine of Velvet Lounge was bathed in pulsing ribbons of violet and amber neon, but the second the heavy oak doors of the private corridor parted, the ambient sound in the room seemed to drop ten decibels.
Dominic walked with his left arm draped casually around my waist, his large hand resting flat against the curve of my hip, pulling me flush against his side. He had discarded his tuxedo jacket, wearing only his crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled twice over forearms crisscrossed with old, faded knife scars.
Behind us walked Viktor and three enforcers, moving in synchronized, silent formation like wolves flanking their alpha.
Down by the central marble bar, Caleb Vance stood laughing, his arm still wrapped around Chloe's waist.
Chloe had her head thrown back, her blonde hair catching the strobe lights, sipping vintage Dom Pérignon from a crystal flute that Caleb had undoubtedly charged to my corporate credit card.
"Caleb," I called out.
My voice didn't scream. It wasn't the hysterical wail of an abandoned bride. It was a clear, melodic chime that sliced through the bass rhythm like a diamond scribe.
Caleb turned around with an easy, patronizing smirk, raising his glass. "Harper! Where did you run off to? Chloe and I were just looking for you—"
The words froze in his throat.
The color drained from his face with the terrifying speed of an open drain, turning his tanned, pampered skin into the sickly shade of wet chalk.
His eyes dropped from my face to the heavy, tattooed arm locked possessively around my waist, then snapped upward to meet the cold, slate-gray stare of Dominic Russo.
The crystal champagne flute slipped from Caleb's nerveless fingers.
Smash.
The glass shattered against the black marble floor, splashing sparkling wine across the hem of Chloe's silver sequined dress.
Chloe let out a sharp, indignant squeak, jumping backward, before her eyes registered the four armed men fanning out behind us to block the stairwells.
"D... Dominic?" Caleb stammered, his voice rising into a thin, breathless whistle. "Mr. Russo... what is this? Why are you with my fiancée?"
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He took a slow, leisurely step forward, guiding me down the final three steps of the mezzanine until we were standing five feet from the trembling heir.
"Your fiancée?" Dominic asked, his deep baritone carrying easily across the hushed, staring patrons of the lounge.
He reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out the three-million-dollar promissory note Caleb had signed forty minutes earlier, and unfolded the heavy parchment with two fingers.
"At ten-fifteen tonight, Caleb, you executed an unconditional default covenant on this paper," Dominic said, his tone conversational, almost bored. "Under Paragraph Four, all pledged assets were liquidated and assigned to Russo Holdings."
Dominic turned his head, his lips grazing my temple in a public, devastating show of possession that made Chloe's jaw drop in horror.
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"Harper isn't your fiancée anymore, boy," Dominic murmured, his slate-gray eyes locking onto Caleb’s dilated pupils like twin crosshairs.
"She’s my wife. And you have five minutes to get out of my city before my men start collecting on your family's debt."
