Chapter 70 Escape

Chapter 70 Escape
Bianca

The air in the grand hall was thick with the smells of roasted meat, rich wine, and unchecked hubris. Chandeliers dripped with crystal, throwing prismatic light across faces flushed with alcohol and self-satisfaction. I sat at the high table on a throne-like chair that might have been beautiful in any other context, a porcelain doll in a beautiful dress they'd provided—emerald green silk that matched my eyes, probably chosen by Jennifer herself as some kind of cruel joke.

My smile was a carefully crafted lie, each expression practiced in the mirror of my prison until it looked natural. Serene acceptance. Quiet grace. The perfect captive who'd learned her place.
Inside, I was screaming.

Jennifer held court at the center of it all, her voice a silken poison as she toasted the family's enduring strength, their inevitable triumph over the Morettis. She wore red—of course she wore red—a gown that hugged every curve, her dark hair swept up to expose a neck adorned with diamonds. Her eyes kept finding mine across the table, savoring her victory, relishing my captivity with the intensity of a connoisseur savoring fine wine.

I was the unspoken prize, the proof of Vitale dominance. The woman who'd married the enemy, now returned to the fold like a prodigal daughter. Each toast, each knowing glance from the assembled capos, made my skin crawl.
I nodded and smiled at the introductions to ancient, cruel-eyed uncles who looked at me with the possessive gaze of men appraising property. To young, hungry soldiers who saw me as a symbol of what they could achieve if they proved themselves worthy. To cousins I vaguely remembered from childhood, now grown into replicas of their fathers—hard men with harder hearts.
The banquet was a display of power, and I was the centerpiece. The conquered queen.
Then I saw him.
A server, older than the others who were mostly young men barely out of their teens. He moved through the hall with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd spent decades perfecting the art of invisibility—refilling glasses, clearing plates, always present but never noticed. But there was something in his posture, a precision to his movements that didn't match his stooped shoulders and gray hair.
His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second as he approached the high table—a flash of recognition, of intent. Tony. One of my father's most trusted men, a soldier who'd been with the family since before I was born. Here, disguised in plain sight among Jennifer's own servants.

My heart lurched. Hope and terror warred in my chest.
As he leaned forward to fill my water glass, his movements brought him close enough that his whisper was barely audible even to me, more breath than sound.
"Your father sends his love, Signorina. When the clock tower chimes ten, create a distraction. Then, follow me."

He moved away before I could react, before my expression could betray anything. Just another servant continuing his rounds, invisible and forgotten the moment he passed.

The following hour was an eternity measured in heartbeats. I played my part, a model of resigned grace, laughing softly at appropriate moments, nodding politely as Jennifer's father recounted stories of past glories and future conquests. While inside, every nerve was screaming, every muscle coiled tight as a spring.
I counted the minutes on the ornate grandfather clock in the corner. Watched its hands creep toward the Roman numeral X with agonizing slowness. Planned my move, calculated angles and timing, ran through possibilities and contingencies.
When the first, deep chime of the clock tower finally resonated through the hall, cutting through the noise and music, I nearly jumped. The sound rolled across the room like thunder.
One… Two… Three…
I took a slow breath, my hand closing around the stem of my grape juice. The crystal was cold against my palm, solid and substantial.
Four…
My eyes found Tony across the room, positioned near the servants' entrance. He gave the slightest nod.
Five.

With a gasp that was only half-feigned, I "slipped" in my chair, sending the full glass of deep red grape juice ascading into the lap of the portly, self-important Vitale capo seated beside me. The man who'd spent the last hour boring me with stories of his business ventures while his hand crept progressively higher up my thigh beneath the table.

The result was instant, beautiful chaos.

His roared curse cut through the music like a gunshot. "Cazzo! You stupid—" Chairs scraped against marble as he lunged upward, juice dripping from his expensive suit. Servants descended in a fluster of napkins and apologies, their trained movements turned frantic. Jennifer's sharp voice cut through the noise, berating the servers for their incompetence, for allowing this to happen.
For a few precious seconds, all eyes were on the sputtering, wine-drenched man and the expanding crimson stain on the white tablecloth.
A firm, certain hand gripped my elbow. Tony. He didn't speak, simply guided me away from the table with the authority of someone acting on orders from above. Not toward the grand entrance where Jennifer's guards stood watch, but toward a heavy tapestry hanging in the shadows along the far wall—a faded medieval scene of saints and angels that nobody had looked at in decades.
He pulled it aside with practiced ease, revealing what I'd never have found on my own: a dark, narrow servants' passage, the kind built into these old fortresses to allow staff to move unseen through the house.

"Quickly, Signorina," he whispered, and his voice now carried the urgency we'd both been suppressing.
I didn't hesitate. The door clicked shut behind us, muffling the chaos to distant echoes. We were plunged into cold, stone-scented darkness, lit only by his small flashlight. The passage was barely wide enough for us to move single file, the walls pressing close, the air stale with centuries of disuse.
We moved swiftly, Tony's steps sure and silent despite the darkness. This was my father's will in motion, a plan executed with flawless precision. Every element perfectly timed, every contingency planned for. We were still deep within the viper's den, surrounded by enemies, any one of whom could sound the alarm.
But with every step away from that hall, from Jennifer's triumphant smile and the prison of that high table, I could feel it—the first, true breath of hope filling my lungs.
The crushing weight of helplessness lifting, replaced by something fiercer.
Alessandro was coming. I knew it with the certainty of my own heartbeat. He would be coming with fire and fury and all the considerable rage I knew lived in his heart.
I was no longer waiting to be saved. I was meeting him halfway, fighting my way toward freedom with every step through the darkness.
The war had begun.