Massimo's face was cold. Marco was already moving toward Valentina. And Luca—the crowned prince of the Genovese family—stood there with a gun held loosely in his hand, as if the whole thing was no more than a minor inconvenience.
Don Vitale turned to Don Genovese in shock. Enzo's face had gone pale beneath his tan, his eyes wide as they moved from the two guards on the floor to his bleeding daughter, then to Massimo, who stood carelessly bored.
"What…" Enzo's voice caught. He swallowed hard. "What is this, Massimo? Is this why you invited us here? To attack my family?"
Around them, the hall remained frozen in the aftermath. A funeral reception had become a battlefield in less than a minute. Women stood clustered together, faces white with shock. Men had their hands near hidden weapons, waiting for one wrong breath to turn it all into war.
Bianca's mother dropped to her knees beside her daughter with a strangled cry. "Bianca! Cara mia!"
