Chapter 14 - The Masked Gala of Geneva
By sunrise, the bodies had been cleared, the grounds restored, and the estate transformed into a military-grade fortress under the command of Damien’s most ruthless lieutenants. But Damien knew that walls, sentries, and surveillance cameras were only shields; a Moretti did not wait to be slaughtered behind high gates.
"We strike at the head," Damien declared three days later, standing in the private hangar of his estate as his Gulfstream jet was fueled.
"Lucien von Klaus is hosting the annual Winter Solstice Gala at his private chateau on Lake Geneva," Marco reported, handing Damien a sleek black passport and an invitation embossed in genuine gold leaf. "It's an ultra-exclusive masquerade. Every corrupt industrialist, warlord, and oligarch connected to the Council will be in attendance."
"And Lily?" Damien asked, turning his head to look back toward the estate.
"She’s secure in our underground vault beneath Lake Como, guarded by twelve of our best veterans and Eva. Even a bunker-buster couldn't breach that sanctuary without our authorization."
Damien adjusted his cufflinks—solid onyx carved with the Moretti wolf crest. "Let's bring the fight to their doorstep."
Twelve hours later, Geneva was blanketed under a thick veil of pristine white snow.
Perched on a cliff overlooking the frozen expanse of the lake, Chateau de Klaus gleamed like an opulent jewel against the night sky. Limousines and sports cars deposited European royalty and international tycoons dressed in tailored black-tie attire, their faces hidden behind elaborate silver, gold, and porcelain masks.
Damien exited his chauffeured Maybach wearing a tailored midnight-blue tuxedo and a sculpted Venetian mask of hammered black steel that covered the upper half of his sharp, handsome face. Marco, dressed as his private security attache, followed close behind.
They presented the forged gold-embossed invitation at the massive bronze doors. The security scanner chimed green, and the guards bowed them through into the grand ballroom.
Vivaldi's strings echoed through the cavernous hall. Crystal chandeliers threw diamonds of light across hundreds of masked figures drinking vintage champagne.
Yet beneath the glamour, Damien sensed the predatory tension humming through the room. This was not a party; it was an open gathering of wolves.
Across the crowded dance floor, standing near a gilded fireplace beneath a massive oil painting of the Black Sun, stood Baron Lucien von Klaus.
He was an imposing man in his late fifties, with silver-streaked hair, a sharp patrician nose, and a half-mask of polished ivory. Surrounding him were four high-ranking members of European society—the ruling council Clara had spoken of.
May you like
Damien took a glass of champagne from a passing silver tray, his dark eyes locked onto his prey.
"Enjoy the music, Baron," Damien murmured beneath his breath. "Because it's the last dance you’ll ever have."
