Chapter 2 - The Devil's Table
The marble staircase felt like a bridge between two different worlds. Below, the glittering dining room of Le Miroir hummed with suppressed whispers, where New York’s elite pretended not to notice the blood drying on the checkered floor. Above, the mezzanine was shrouded in low amber lighting and absolute silence.
Every step Mara took sent a sharp jolt through her bruised ribs, but she refused to limp. She clutched the crisp monogrammed handkerchief to her split lower lip, breathing in the scent of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and iron.
Vincent Bellini did not rise when she reached the top. He sat relaxed in a deep leather booth, a crystal tumbler of scotch resting between fingers bearing a heavy signet ring carved with a roaring lion. Up close, the rumors did him little justice. Vincent was barely thirty-five, sharp-jawed, with eyes like winter frost—cold, calculating, and possessing a dangerous clarity that saw through every mask.
"Sit, Miss Vance," Vincent said smoothly.
Cal pulled back a plush velvet chair. Mara hesitated for only a fraction of a second before lowering herself into it. Across the dining floor below, she could see her mother, Evelyn, standing stiffly by their abandoned table, clutching her designer purse like a shield, eyes glued to the mezzanine in sheer panic.
"You didn't scream," Vincent observed, leaning back, his dark eyes sweeping over the torn silk of her gown and the dark bruising blooming on her cheekbone. "Most women in your circle would have collapsed into hysterics the moment Grant raised his hand."
"Screaming only entertains cowards," Mara replied, her voice rough but steady. "And my family doesn't waste energy on pity. They only respect leverage."
A faint, intriguing smirk touched Vincent’s lips. "Leverage. A practical woman. That explains why your grandfather left eighty percent of Vance Maritime exclusively to you, cutting out Evelyn and her new husband's useless son."
Mara stiffened. Her grandfather, Arthur Vance, had died only three weeks ago. The will was supposed to be sealed until next Monday. "How do you know what was in Arthur's will?"
"Because your grandfather owed me three hundred million dollars," Vincent said casually, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "And Arthur knew that if Evelyn or Grant got their hands on his fleet, they would liquidate the assets within forty-eight hours to pay off Grant's offshore gambling debts. Your family lured you to dinner tonight to force you to sign a conservatorship petition under physical threat."
Mara’s knuckles turned white on the edge of the mahogany table. She had suspected, but hearing it confirmed so coldly made the remaining warmth in her veins turn to ice. "They brought me here to break me in public so I would look mentally unstable if I resisted."
"Precisely," Vincent said. He set his glass down with a soft, decisive clink. "They wanted to put you in a gilded cage and milk your legacy dry. But you don't belong in a cage, Miss Vance. You belong in a boardroom. Or at my side."
Mara narrowed her eyes, ignoring the throb in her jaw. "Nothing in this city comes without a cost, Mr. Bellini. Especially not rescue from the Bellini family. What do you want from me?"
Vincent leaned forward, the shadows catching the razor-sharp cut of his cheekbones. "I want the Vance shipping corridors to secure my family’s transatlantic ports. You want Grant broken, your mother stripped of every dime she tried to steal, and your grandfather's legacy protected."
"And the price?" she whispered.
May you like
"Marry me," Vincent said quietly. "Give me your signature on a marriage license tomorrow morning. In return, I will give you the complete destruction of everyone who watched you bleed tonight."
***
