Chapter 55 The Shot
Chapter 55 The Shot
Jasmine:
This room had belonged to my father once; now it belonged to me. Maps and notes covered the walls, and the table in the center drooped under the weight of the folders placed on it: shipping routes, warehouse lists, and every piece of intelligence our family had collected on the Moretts. The men around that table waited for orders, and their expectation pressed on me in a way that still felt strange.
Three months ago I had been a model; now grown men called me Godmother, and I pushed the strangeness away so I could think.
“We hit another shipment route.”
One of the captains nodded. “The New Jersey corridor?”
“No.” I pointed to a location farther south. “He expects us to attack money. He expects warehouses. He expects retaliation. Let’s make him protect everything.”
Several men exchanged approving glances. Dante stood near the window, watching quietly as always, and when one of the older captains said, “The Moretti's are moving more men into Manhattan,”
I answered, “Then let them.” The room tightened around the words.
A few moments later the doors opened and Pietro walked in without knocking. His habit of barging in grated at me, but lately everyone tolerated it. He dropped a folder on the table and announced, “I have something better.”
Nobody spoke. Pietro smiled and taunted, “Tell me, Elena. Are you sure you want your lover dead?”
My jaw tightened. “Ex,” I said.
He shrugged. “Whatever helps you sleep.”
Dante looked irritated. Good. At least I wasn’t alone. Pietro then opened the folder and pushed photos, security reports, guest lists, and building layouts across the table.
I frowned. “What is this?”
“A gift,” he said, and slid a sheet toward me. I scanned it and my eyes widened when I saw the name and the invitation: Nikolai Moretti, private gathering. Location classified, attendance restricted, elite capos only. It wasn’t just New York. International, the biggest names in organised crime would be there.
My pulse slowed until the idea settled like a stone in my stomach. Pietro leaned forward. “A celebration,” he said. “Nikolai likes reminding people he’s the most powerful man in the room.” The room stayed quiet. “He wants everyone gathered beneath one roof so they can admire him,” Pietro added, and I hated how true it sounded. He tapped the floor-plan. “What better retaliation than showing him otherwise?”
I folded my arms. “I’m not killing innocent people.”
“Elena—“
“Godmother.” I corrected Pietro with a look.
He sighed. “People like us will be gathered there and we aren’t innocent. Besides, you don’t have to.”
Dante stepped in. “What exactly are you proposing?”
Pietro ignored him and looked straight at me. “The teasing has gone on long enough,” he said, his voice harder now. “Nikolai Moretti murdered our father.” The room darkened with the memory, the hospital monitors, funeral speeches, the empty chair, and anger and grief rushed back until my chest felt tight.
Pietro lowered his voice. “He dies.”
Nobody spoke for a long beat. Dante finally said, “Or we gather more evidence.”
Pietro laughed. “There he is. The note says it all.”
Dante’s jaw tightened. “We still don’t know what happened.”
“We know enough.”
“No.” Dante stepped forward. “We don’t.”
For a tense moment I feared they would come to blows. Then Pietro turned to me, not Dante. “The decision is yours, Godmother.”
The room waited; every eye fixed on me. I stared down at the plans, feeling the weight of choice, and then slowly nodded. “We go to New York.”
His event took place beneath a luxury hotel that looked over Manhattan. It was private, exclusive, and supposed to be secure, masks hid faces, armed men lined the entrances, and music. Everything about it shouted wealth and power, which made me hate it even more. I entered with Pietro. Valentina remained several steps behind. Dante stayed close to me, closer than usual, as if he sensed something was wrong with the way the let us in, it was as if Nikolai had been expecting us.
The operation was simple on paper: cut the power, trigger panic, release false reports of an assassination attempt, and create confusion. Then expose Nikolai in front of every major capo and force him to show weakness.
At exactly nine o’clock the lights died and the entire ballroom was swallowed by darkness. Chaos erupted; people rushed for the exits, security moved to control the crowd, weapons flashed, and people shouted. Amid that sudden storm I saw him, Nikolai, across the room. Our eyes met and everything else fell away. For an instant the noise was gone; it was only him and me.
He started moving toward me. I should have left. I should have stepped away. Instead I stood. A few seconds later he reached me. His face was different, less proud, more desperate.
“Jasmine,” he said, and the sound of my alias hit me like a thrown stone.
“Don’t,” I said.
He stopped a few feet away. “Listen to me.”
“No.”
“Someone is behind this,” he said urgently. “Behind your father’s death.”
My laugh came out bitter. “Still lying,” I said.
“I’m not lying,”
“Enough,” I snapped. I felt tears threatening to fall, which made me angrier. “My father is dead.”
His eyes softened and that only made everything worse. “Jasmine—” he began.
“Stop calling me that!” I snapped.
He took another step. “I didn’t kill him.” The words struck something inside me because a part of me wanted to believe them, part of me still loved him, even after everything. And that realisation hurt.
I reached for my gun. Nikolai’s eyes widened at once. Around us men were drawing guns, shouting, and running. The ballroom had become a battlefield.
“Elena,” he said in a low voice, “Put it down.”
“No.”
“You don’t want this.”
“Don’t tell me what I want.”
He moved closer, close enough that I could see the scar near his jaw, close enough to remember kisses and the times we had been soft with each other.
“Elena.”
My hand shook. “Stop moving.”
“Listen to me.”
“STOP!” someone shouted nearby. A shot was fired, and that single shot cracked through the air made me flinch. My finger tightened by reflex, and the gun in my hand went off.
For one horrible second everything froze. Nikolai’s body jerked, his eyes went wide, and then he looked down and saw blood spreading across his chest. The gun slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.
“No…” I heard myself say, my voice breaking. No. No. No.
Everything around us was chaos. But I couldn’t hear a single thing except the fragile sound of Nikolai fighting for his life.
Dante grabbed my arm hard. “ELENA!” he shouted, but I could not move. I could not breathe. I could not think. Blood stained Nikolai’s shirt and the world narrowed to a single, unbearable truth: I had just shot the man I loved.