Chapter 2 - the trembling signature
The silence in the ballroom felt heavy enough to choke on. Celeste stayed frozen against the ruined table, her diamond earrings trembling against her bare neck. Around her, men who had bowed to her family for years remained standing, their heads dipped toward the man standing over her.
Victor reached into his breast pocket, drew out a plain gold lighter, and picked up one half of his torn invitation from the marble floor. He sparked the flame, watched the paper curl into black ash, and dropped it into a silver ice bucket.
"Stand up, Celeste," Victor murmured.
She swallowed hard, her rosy complexion pale with mortification. She pushed herself up from the floor, smoothing her silver gown with shaking fingers. The arrogance in her eyes was gone, replaced by frantic calculations.
"Victor," she managed, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "We... we were told you had retired permanently to the northern coast. Nobody announced your return."
"A Don does not make appointments in his own city," Victor replied. He turned his gaze toward Julian Vance. "Julian."
"Sire," the elder adviser said, stepping closer.
"Why is the Moreau family hosting the syndicate auction on Bellacorte ground?" Victor asked, sweeping a cold gaze across the banners bearing the Moreau crest. "And why are family assets on tonight's bidding ledger?"
Celeste quickly stepped in, trying to recover her posture. "My father, Marcus, sanctioned this auction himself. With you absent for seven years, the city needed liquidity. Every lot tonight was signed off by his authority."
She raised her hand, gesturing to an assistant who hurriedly brought forward a leather-bound catalog and a notarized transfer deed. Celeste snatched the folder and held it out, her chin rising slightly as she found her footing again.
"See for yourself," she insisted. "The Moreau syndicate holds legal stewardship. Signed by my father three days ago."
Victor took the paper. He didn't read the legal jargon. His thumb traced the ink at the bottom of the page.
Marcus Moreau had been Victor’s right-hand enforcer for two decades. The man was a former military captain whose signature had always been sharp, rigid, and disciplined as a bayonet.
The ink on the parchment before him was erratic. The lines wavered, dragging unevenly across the seal as if the hand holding the pen had been trembling violently—or guided by force.
Victor folded the paper into a neat square and tucked it into his jacket.
"Marcus didn't write this," Victor said flatly.
Celeste's breath hitched. "Excuse me?"
"Where is your father, Celeste?" Victor asked, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying precision.
May you like
Before Celeste could answer, Julian stepped between them, his expression tense. "Don Bellacorte... perhaps we should speak in the private gallery. There is an item in tonight's catalog you need to see before the bidding starts."
***
