The chamber of the Underground Council was a place that did not officially exist. Buried deep beneath the placid streets of Geneva, it was a sterile cathedral of brushed steel and black marble, designed for men who spoke in billions and bartered in blood. A circular amphitheater, it placed every family head on equal footing, their faces illuminated by the cold, blue light of the holographic data-sphere suspended in the center of the room. The air was chilled and still, heavy with the weight of unspoken power. The dons of the Yakuza, the heads of the Bratva, the cartel kings—they were all here, summoned by the unprecedented dual decree of the Moretti and Cross families.
I stood beside Dante on the central dais, a queen in a kingdom of my own making. I wore a simple black dress, my only ado
