Chapter 7 - The Gala
By mid-December, the winter air turned bitterly cold, wrapping the city in frost.
The annual Costa Foundation Charity Gala was held at the historic Roosevelt Hotel downtown. It was the premier event of the season, a public display where New Orleans’ political elite, business moguls, and high-society families gathered under the guise of philanthropy.
Roman insisted that Clara attend for at least one hour to maintain appearances, and that meant Rebecca had to accompany her.
In her room, Rebecca found a heavy garment bag resting on her bed, sent by Roman. Inside was a floor-length emerald green silk gown, simple, elegant, with long fitted sleeves, accompanied by a pair of silver heels and a velvet box containing diamond stud earrings.
When she stepped down the grand staircase into the foyer, Roman was waiting in a crisp black tuxedo.
He turned to look at her, and for three seconds, the formidable mafia boss looked completely caught off guard. His dark eyes swept over the green silk dress, her swept-up auburn hair, and the quiet dignity with which she held herself.
“Is something wrong?” Rebecca asked, touching her earlobe nervously.
“No,” Roman said softly, his voice lower than usual. “You look... extraordinary, Rebecca.”
“It’s a nice dress,” she said quietly, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in her pulse.
At the hotel ballroom, five hundred guests drifted under massive crystal chandeliers. Champagne flowed, string quartets played, and photographers’ flashbulbs popped along the red carpet.
Rebecca stayed close to Clara’s side, guiding her through the crowds, describing the dresses, the decorations, and the floral arrangements in quiet whispers. Clara was radiant, holding court with old friends, her hand resting trustingly on Rebecca’s arm.
Roman moved through the room like a king, greeting politicians, judges, and foreign investors, but his eyes constantly returned to the corner where Rebecca stood.
Suddenly, a tall, slick man with thin lips and cold grey eyes approached Clara’s table. It was Victor Marcone—Roman’s chief rival in the city’s underground trade.
“Clara, my dear,” Victor purred, bowing slightly, taking Clara’s hand before Rebecca could step between them. “You look remarkably well tonight. I heard rumors you were bedridden.”
May you like
Clara’s posture instantly went rigid. “Victor. I am as healthy as the day I buried your father.”
Victor’s smile tightened into a cruel sneer. He glanced dismissively at Rebecca. “And who is this pretty little thing? A new servant? Or did Roman hire you to hold her hand so she doesn't wander off into the river?”
