The syndicate gala was a glittering trap dressed in crystal chandeliers and tailored tuxedos, held in a sprawling neutral venue overlooking the lagoon. After the assassination attempt that had left Elena bandaged and bloodied but alive, Dante had insisted she attend. “They need to see us united,” he had said that morning in her room, his fingers gentle on her healing shoulder. “No more weakness. You shielded me. Now we show them the strength of this marriage.”
Elena had dressed carefully a sleek black gown that concealed her bandages, silver threads woven through her dark hair like moonlight. The Phoenix files and vault coordinates still burned in her mind, Ghost’s latest message urging patience amid the chaos. But as they entered the gala arm in arm, Dante’s hand possessive at her waist,
