Bound to the Don

Chapter 32

Third person's pov

Finally, they arrived.

The sleek black limousine glided to a stop outside the grand, chandelier lit venue. The kind of place that oozed wealth and deception in equal measure. The moment the door swung open, a hush fell over the crowd like a blanket. Conversations died mid-sentence. Champagne glasses froze halfway to lips. Every head turned.

They thought it was him.

But it was Louis they were staring at—cloaked in Armando's suit, masked in his likeness, every move deliberate, practiced, dripping with that same quiet dominance Armando was known for. Beside him, Vittoria played her part effortlessly. Her hand looped around Louis's arm as if it had always belonged there. She smiled at the attention, basked in the whispers.

To the outsiders, to the Massimo brothers watching with calculated eyes, it was Armando Paolo who had just entered.

They were wrong.

The real Armando came in minutes later, unnoticed—silent as a shadow, precise as a blade. His steps were smooth, unhurried. And at his side, dressed in black, gloved and masked, walked Salma. Her footsteps barely made a sound, her posture poised but cautious. She stayed close, as instructed but couldn't help the nerves that threatened to surface.
Despite their subtle entrance, something shifted in the air.

A ripple.

It was nothing tangible, no flashy entrance or grand announcement, but heads turned anyway. A few turned towards the couple instinctively, as if they could feel the weight of something... off. As if some invisible thread had pulled their attention.

Who is that man?

And who is she?

They could only wonder I'm their thoughts.

They didn't know why they looked. They couldn't explain it. His presence contained pure and raw energy that rolled off him. Some stared too long before looking away. Others whispered behind gloved hands, voices low and urgent.
But none of them recognized him.

Not truly.

Exactly as he intended.

And while the eyes of the crowd were locked on the decoy, the fake Armando playing his role on the ballroom floor. Tthe real one stood in the shadows, watching, waiting, calculating. The game had begun. The trap was already set.

Meanwhile, above it all, the Massimo brothers' plan had already begun to unfold, unaware that they were walking into something far darker than they anticipated.

Armando had come to end it.

All of it.

And tonight, the masks would fall.

One by one.
---

All around the ballroom, their hired shooters moved like shadows in a hall of light. Each one positioned with careful precision—hidden in plain sight, masquerading as well-dressed guests. Their eyes were sharp, trained. Their hands steady. And every single one of them waited for one thing which is a clean shot at Armando.

Or so they thought.

One rifle in particular caught Armando's eye, a sniper tucked discreetly in the upper corner of the ballroom, so well concealed that only a meticulous scan could've spotted it. The barrel was aimed squarely at Louis, who played his role flawlessly, dressed in Armando's tailored suit, wearing his mask, moving with his arrogance.

Amateurs, Armando thought with a slow, grim smile.

They didn't even know they were pointing their weapons at the wrong man.