Chapter 5

That night, the air in Manhattan's Upper West Side hung heavy with the damp scent of an approaching downpour.

Carmine did not take Clemenza to the Metropolitan Opera House. Instead, he brought her to a high-end French restaurant named "Bar Boulud" near Lincoln Center. It was only a few hundred meters from the opera house; through the massive glass windows, one could even see the iconic arched facade and the fountain.

The lighting in the restaurant was dim, and the melody of a cello drifted through the air. Carmine seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood tonight. He ordered a bottle of 1996 Bordeaux and an expensive black truffle risotto.

"You know, Clemenza." Carmine swirled his glass, gazing through the red wine at the bustling street outside. "I really like this spot. Sitting here, you can watch those hypocrites in their evening wear walking into that giant theater to appreciate operas they don't understand at all. They think they are civilized, but in reality, strip away that skin, and everyone is a beast."

"Are you here to appreciate the opera too? From this distance?" Clemenza cut into the foie gras on her plate. The texture was smooth and rich, yet she felt as though she were chewing on a piece of spoiled fat.

"I am the director." Carmine smiled, revealing a row of white teeth. "Tonight, there is a good show, more exciting than anything Mozart or Verdi ever wrote. A pity the audience is only us."

He lifted his wrist to check his gold Rolex. "Ten minutes left. The first act is about to end. That old drunk Ivanov usually leaves before the intermission because he can't stand the soprano's screaming. He'll slip out the side door to smoke in the parking lot."

Clemenza gripped her knife handle tightly, her knuckles turning white. She forced the foie gras into her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.

Time passed, minute by minute. The clock on the restaurant wall pointed to eight forty-five.

The street outside remained calm. Yellow taxis scurried like beetles, and pedestrians hurried past under umbrellas.

The smile remained on Carmine's face, but his fingers began to unconsciously tap the table. It was a sign of his impatience.

Eight fifty.

Suddenly, a dull, thunderous boom rolled in from the distance. It wasn't thunder, nor was it the sound of a tire blowing out. It was something far more violent, far more destructive.

Immediately following it, piercing sirens sliced through the night sky.

Carmine shot up from his seat, the smile on his face freezing instantly. He grabbed the phone from the table and dialed a number.

"What happened? Why was there an explosion?" he roared into the phone, a trace of incredulous loss of control in his voice. "I told you to keep it clean! Use silencers! Who the hell told you to use a bomb?!"

The person on the other end seemed to be reporting something. Carmine's face grew uglier by the second, shifting from anger to shock, and finally to a grotesque contortion.

"What do you mean nobody was there?!" he shouted, drawing sideways glances from surrounding diners. "The car was empty? It was a decoy?! Damn it! It's an ambush! Retreat! Retreat immediately!"

He slammed the phone down onto the table violently. The screen shattered, much like his originally perfect plan.

Clemenza sat opposite him, watching the scene quietly. She picked up her napkin and elegantly dabbed the corner of her mouth.

"Is something wrong, Carmine?" she asked softly, her eyes filled with just the right amount of "concern." "This play... doesn't seem to be following the script."

Carmine turned his head, staring dead at her. In those eyes that were usually filled with a desire for control, there appeared for the first time an emotion called "suspicion." He looked like a wounded lion trying to spot the invisible hunter in his surroundings.

"The Russians..." He gritted his teeth, the voice squeezed from the depths of his throat. "They were prepared. They planted explosives in the parking lot. Three of my men... all gone."

"Oh my God." Clemenza covered her mouth, feigning a look of horror. "That's terrible. How could this happen? Did someone... leak the secret?"

Carmine narrowed his eyes, his gaze scraping across her face like a blade. But Clemenza's expression was impeccable—nothing but fear and fragility. In the past two days of "training," she had learned how to use this skin to deceive the world.

"Impossible," Carmine muttered to himself, seemingly trying to convince himself. "Only the family's core members knew the plan. Unless..."

His gaze turned to the chaotic street outside. The red and blue lights of police cars and ambulances intertwined, dyeing the rainy night a bizarre purple.

"It seems Ivanov, that old bear, isn't as stupid as I thought." Carmine sat back down, adjusting his tie in an attempt to recover his elegant demeanor, but his trembling fingers betrayed him. "But it doesn't matter. The war has begun. Since he wants to play big, I'll play with him to the end."

He picked up the unfinished glass of red wine and drained it in one gulp. The red liquid trickled down the corner of his mouth like a streak of blood.

"Let's go, Clemenza." He stood up, his voice cold. "Tonight's date is over. It's not safe here."

Clemenza stood obediently and took his arm. Her body was still trembling slightly, but no longer from fear—it was from an unprecedented thrill.

It was the thrill of revenge.

As they walked out of the restaurant, the cold wind hit their faces, mixed with rain. In the distance, the Metropolitan Opera House was still ablaze with lights, as if the explosion just now had been merely a climactic note in the opera.

Clemenza looked up at the colossal building. She knew that starting tonight, the New York underworld would run with rivers of blood. And all of it was because a swan locked in a cage had gently flapped its wings.

"You look cold." Carmine took off his suit jacket and draped it over her. The coat carried the heavy scent of cologne and the faint smell of gunpowder.

"A little." Clemenza pulled the jacket tighter, the corners of her mouth tilting up slightly in the darkness. "But I am looking forward... to the next act."

Carmine didn't see that smile. He was busy calling his subordinates, mobilizing more men. What he didn't know was that his most dangerous enemy was right now nestling docilely by his side, listening to his every command, counting his every breath.

This was no longer *Giselle*, a tragedy of sacrifice and forgiveness. This was *Macbeth*, an epic of ambition, blood, and betrayal. And Clemenza Rossi had only just taken the stage.