Chapter 10 - The Unconquered Throne
Six months later.
The annual Moretti Foundation gala was the most exclusive, high-society event of the Chicago social calendar. Held in the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel, it was a glittering sea of diamonds, expensive champagne, and powerful men whose handshakes could shift political dynasties.
For three years, Dante Moretti had attended these galas alone, standing in the shadows like a carved statue of ice, refusing to dance, refusing to play the social game.
Tonight was entirely different.
The double doors of the grand ballroom swung open, and the restless murmur of five hundred elite guests instantly died down to an absolute, breathless hush.
Dante Moretti walked down the grand marble staircase with slow, measured strides. He wore a custom midnight-blue tuxedo, his broad shoulders commanding the room effortlessly. But it wasn't the Don that captured every eye in the room.
It was the woman on his arm.
Norah Moretti wore a stunning, backless gown of liquid silver silk that caught the chandelier light with every step she took. A delicate diamond necklace—an heirloom passed down through four generations of Moretti matriarchs—sparkled against her throat. Her head was held high, her hazel eyes bright with quiet, unshakeable confidence.
Camila Serrano stood near the edge of the dais, her champagne glass clutched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles turned stark white. She watched as Dante led Norah down the stairs, his hand resting possessively, tenderly at the small of her back.
The message to the entire Chicago underworld was unmistakable, carved in stone and gold: She is mine. Touch her, and you die.
Dante led Norah to the center of the polished mahogany dance floor as the orchestra struck up a slow, sweeping waltz. He pulled her flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around her with an absolute, undeniable devotion that defied every rule of the brutal world he ruled.
Norah rested her cheek against his shoulder, looking up into his dark, burning eyes with a soft, knowing smile.
“Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Moretti?” she whispered playfully over the sound of the violins.
May you like
Dante tightened his grip around her waist, looking down at his wife with a fierce, quiet intensity that made the rest of the crowded ballroom fade into nothingness.
“I was just thinking,” Dante murmured, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against the crown of her hair, “that the best thing that ever happened to my empire was an elevator that refused to work.”
