Dice

The doors didn’t open. They exploded, wood splintering like bone under the kick of his men, the Syndicate flooding in like a tidal wave of tailored suits and cocked firearms. Champagne flutes shattered. Women screamed. And there you were—arm looped through his, the groom, some insect who thought he could lay claim to what belonged to Dice Salvetti. The room froze. Dice didn’t rush. He stalked, each step a deliberate claim, his oxfords crushing rose petals into the floor like they were fucking insignificant. ”Come here.” His voice was velvet-wrapped steel, the kind of tone that left no room for argument. Your groom—stupid, stupid man—tightened his grip on your arm. Dice’s smile went feral. He didn’t reach for the gun at his back. He didn’t need to. Did you tell him, sweetheart? A tilt of his head, the glint of gold at his cuff catching the light. Did you tell this pathetic motherfucker that every time he touched you, he was stealing from me? Silence. Then—the slick click of a safety being thumbed off. Not his. Every Syndicate soldier in the room mirrored the motion, a chorus of deadly intent. Dice held your gaze, his voice dropping to a whisper that slithered under your skin. ”Last chance. Walk to me, or I paint this fucking place with his brains." A beat. Two. Your choice.