Chapter 3

Carmine paused for a beat, then erupted into laughter. The sound echoed through the private room, carrying the excitement of a predator discovering new prey.

"Interesting." Carmine leaned in close, a dangerous light flickering in his eyes. "I thought you'd be weeping, or trembling like a frightened little deer. It seems you learned the lesson from that night at the gallery very quickly."

"You taught me that silence is golden, and one must know how to live beautifully." Clemenza curtsied slightly, executing a standard ballet reverence, her movement impeccably elegant. "Since this is my new role, I will do my best to play it well."

Carmine narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the woman before him. He was accustomed to controlling everything, accustomed to seeing fear in the eyes of others. But right now, what he saw in Clemenza's eyes was not fear, but a bottomless void. This emptiness gave him a strange thrill, along with a trace of imperceptible caution.

"Very good." Carmine pulled a red velvet box from his pocket and opened it to reveal a massive emerald ring. "Since you understand the rules, let’s dispense with the hypocritical pleasantries. Put this on, and the Rossi family debt is wiped clean. I’ll also give your father half the control over the Brooklyn dock unions."

Hearing this, Tony Rossi flushed red with excitement, his breathing quickening. He signaled frantically to his daughter with his eyes, urging her to accept immediately.

Clemenza extended her left hand. It was a hand covered in tiny scars from years of training; despite the lotion, the wear and tear of her craft was visible. Carmine took the ring and slowly slid it onto her ring finger. The band was cold and heavy, like a miniature shackle, thoroughly locking down her fate.

"Deal," Clemenza whispered, looking at the green stone on her finger.

The dinner officially began. It was a feast of power, and a performance of hypocrisy. The men smoked cigars, discussing territory, drug smuggling, and money laundering as casually as if they were discussing the weather. The women sat to the side, maintaining decorous smiles, occasionally exchanging hushed whispers about the latest fashion trends.

Clemenza sat beside Carmine, quietly cutting the medium-rare filet mignon on her plate. She didn't eat a bite, merely mechanically repeating the motion of slicing the meat.

"I hear the Russians are making noise in Brighton Beach lately?" Tony, emboldened by a few drinks, asked tentatively.

Carmine swirled his red wine nonchalantly. "Just a bunch of savages who only know how to drink vodka. That old man Ivanov thinks he can establish a foothold in New York with a few washed-up KGB agents? He's too naive."

"But..." The Costa family Consigliere, an old man wearing gold-rimmed glasses sitting opposite them, interjected softly, "Their supply source is cheap, and they have a new smuggling route over there, coming directly through the New Jersey container terminals. If we don't deal with it, it will affect our market share."

"Then make them disappear," Carmine said coldly, his tone as light as if he were talking about taking out the trash. "Next Tuesday, Ivanov is going to the Met for a show. It's his habit. After that... I don't want to hear his name again."

Clemenza's hand paused slightly mid-cut, the knife blade making a sharp, grating sound against the porcelain plate.

Everyone's eyes turned toward her.

"Apologies." Clemenza looked up, an apologetic smile on her face. "My hand slipped. This knife... is a little dull."

Carmine stared at her for a few seconds, seemingly judging whether she had understood the conversation. But Clemenza's eyes remained clear and innocent, as if she were just a clumsy girl who had made a careless mistake.

"It doesn't matter." Carmine turned his head, continuing to address the Consigliere. "Keep it clean. Don't do it inside the theater; that's tasteless. Handle it in the parking lot when he comes out."

Clemenza lowered her eyelids and resumed cutting the meat on her plate. But beneath that calm mask, her heart was pounding violently.

Next Tuesday. The Metropolitan Opera House. Ivanov.

She suddenly realized that both her father and Carmine had made a fatal error. They thought that by locking her in this cage, she would become deaf, blind, and mute. They assumed women were merely decorations, requiring no discretion when discussing such classified matters.

It was arrogance. And arrogance is often the beginning of destruction.

She had once thought that only by fleeing this place could she find freedom. But now, looking at these self-righteous men, looking at the ring on her finger that symbolized her enslavement, a new idea grew wildly in her mind.

There is a line in *The Count of Monte Cristo*: "There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more."

If she could not escape hell, then she would become the master of it.

Clemenza forked a piece of blood-stained beef, put it in her mouth, and chewed slowly. The meat was tender, carrying a hint of metallic tang, yet it made her feel unprecedentedly real.

She swallowed, picked up her wine glass, and raised it to Carmine.

"To our future, Carmine." Her voice was gentle as water, yet carried a chill that could stop a heart.

Carmine smiled and clinked his glass against hers. "To the future, my Black Swan."

The crimson liquid swayed in the glass, reflecting the smile on Clemenza's lips. It was not a smile of submission; it was the smile of a hunter watching prey step into a trap.

She didn't need to run anymore. She had found her stage, and she had found her weapon. The performance had only just begun, and this time, she would be the one writing the script.