Chapter 2 - The Four Men in Dark Suits
"Now, as we were saying before our dear Jessi decided to make her usual dramatic entrance," my father continued, his voice oozing false warmth as he attempted to steer the audience's attention back toward Chloe and Flynn, "let us raise a glass to the true pride of the Sterling family. True grace, true breeding, true success."
A polite, sycophantic ripple of applause murmured through the tables. People turned away from me, eager to appease the patriarch of the evening, returning to their gourmet plates of pan-seared sea bass and vintage champagne. Aunt Patricia, sitting near the kitchen service doors at Table 21, leaned over with a saccharine smile that didn't reach her cold, dead eyes.
"Well, Jessi, I suppose it's a blessing in disguise," she whispered loudly enough for the surrounding tables to hear. "At least the red wine hides how terribly out of style that dress was to begin with. Though, goodness knows, finding a replacement on your budget might take months."
I didn't dignify her with a response. I simply picked up my cloth napkin, gently dabbed at the wet crimson stain across my chest, and kept my eyes fixed on the massive double doors at the far end of the ballroom.
One minute passed. Then two.
At minute three, the ambient chatter of the three hundred guests began to shift, a subtle ripple of confusion moving outward from the entrance like a stone dropped in a pond. The heavy, soundproof mahogany doors—custom-carved and imported directly from France for this ostentatious display of wealth—didn't just open. They were pushed wide with a synchronized, mechanical precision that commanded instant silence.
Four men stepped across the threshold in absolute unison.
They weren't hotel staff, and they certainly weren't wedding guests. They wore bespoke, charcoal-gray Tom Ford suits that radiated quiet, terrifying authority. Their hair was cropped short, their posture was rigid, and their expressions were carved from cold granite. Each man carried himself with the unmistakable aura of private federal protection or corporate security elite. Without a single spoken word, they split apart with military synchronization. Two men flanked the left doorframe, their hands clasped neatly behind their backs, while the other two marched briskly down the grand central aisle, their polished leather shoes clicking sharply against the marble floor.
The live jazz band, playing a soft rendition of a classic love song, abruptly ground to a halt. The saxophone player hit a sour note and dropped his instrument to his side.
My father stopped mid-sentence, the microphone hovering inches from his mouth. His eyes darted toward the aisle, his brow furrowing in irritation as he glared at the intruders. "Excuse me! This is a private, invitation-only event! Security! Remove these—"
He didn't get to finish the sentence.
The two men marching down the aisle came to a dead stop exactly ten feet from the head table. They turned ninety degrees inward, pulling white leather gloves from their pockets and snapping them onto their hands with a crisp, echoing snap.
Then, through the parted doors, a fifth figure emerged.
Luca Vance walked into the ballroom.
He didn't run, he didn't rush, and he didn't look at the terrified crowd of high-society elites staring in slack-jawed shock. He wore a midnight-blue evening jacket, his shirt collar unbuttoned at the top, his silver-streaked dark hair catching the glittering light of the crystal chandeliers. He looked every bit the multi-billionaires’ billionaire—a man who bought and sold countries before lunch, whose name alone could trigger stock market rallies or corporate liquidations with a single stroke of a pen.
My mother dropped her crystal champagne flute. It shattered against the floor, spraying sparkling wine across the white tablecloth, but she didn't even blink. Her eyes were fixed on Luca with a sickening, horrifying realization slowly dawning across her face.
Flynn Reed, the golden-boy groom, stood up so fast his chair tipped backward, crashing loudly against the wooden floorboards. "Who... who the hell is that? How did security let him in?!"
My father’s face drained of color, turning a pasty, sickly shade of grey. The microphone in his hand began to tremble violently, emitting a high-pitched electronic squeal that made the entire ballroom wince. Because Arthur Sterling, corporate lawyer and self-proclaimed king of the local legal scene, recognized the man walking down the aisle. Everyone in high finance recognized Luca Vance.
May you like
And Luca Vance wasn't looking at Chloe. He wasn't looking at my mother, or my father, or Aunt Patricia.
His dark, intense eyes scanned the room until they locked directly onto me, sitting quietly by the kitchen doors with a red wine stain splattered across my chest.
