Chapter 2 - Chaos in the Ballroom
Pandemonium broke out instantly. The elegant veneer of the Pendleton Foundation gala vanished in a heartbeat as hundreds of wealthy elites dropped to their knees, scattering champagne flutes and designer handbags across the floor.
Dominic yanked Beatrice up from the floor, pulling her hard against his chest as he drew a compact Sig Sauer P365 from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion. He scanned the balcony, but sector four was empty. The sniper was already moving.
"Mateo!" Dominic roared over the rising tide of panic.
Across the room, Mateo Bianchi was scrambling behind a mahogany service bar, his face drained of color, his third whiskey spilled all over his expensive white shirt. He looked terrified, completely out of his depth.
"Boss! We're hit! Who the fuck—" Mateo shouted back, fumbling with his own weapon.
"Stay down!" Dominic ordered, his eyes darting toward the side exits. The heavy oak doors leading to the courtyard were locked from the outside—a systemic breach. Someone had planned this trap down to the last hinge.
"They're not here for a random hit," Beatrice said, her voice eerily calm as she crouched low beside Dominic behind a massive marble pillar. She wasn't shaking. While women twice her social standing were sobbing hysterically on the floor, Beatrice was systematically unzipping a hidden pocket in the lining of her dark green evening gown.
Dominic glanced down and felt a cold jolt run through his veins.
From the secret pocket, Beatrice pulled out a black, matte-finish Glock 19 with an extended magazine and a tactical light attachment. She checked the chamber with a crisp, practiced clack that told Dominic she had handled firearms more often than most of his own soldiers.
"You're carrying a piece in an emerald cocktail dress?" Dominic asked, incredulity cutting through his adrenaline.
"My father taught me that men who look at curvy women in green dresses as easy targets usually end up bleeding on the floor," Beatrice whispered, her hazel eyes locking onto his with razor-sharp intensity. "The sniper on the balcony was a distraction. The real entry team is coming through the service kitchens behind the string quartet. Four men. Tactical gear. Thermal vests. They want your head, Dominic, and they want the ledger in your breast pocket."
Dominic’s hand flew instinctively to the inside pocket of his jacket, where a waterproof leather folder containing the organization’s most sensitive offshore accounts rested against his heart. Only Leo, Mateo, and Dominic knew that ledger existed.
"How do you know about the ledger?" Dominic demanded, his gun raised.
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"Because your organization has been leaking data for three months, and your brilliant friend Mateo has been selling it to the outfit on the North Side to pay off his gambling debts," Beatrice said coldly, keeping her weight balanced on the balls of her feet. "Now, are we going to stand here playing twenty questions while they kick the kitchen doors in, or are we going to survive the night?"
Before Dominic could process the betrayal, heavy boots slammed against the service doors at the far end of the ballroom. The reinforced wooden panels splintered inward under the force of a battering ram.
