Chapter 5 - The Charity Gala
The grand ballroom of the Grand Regent Hotel was a blinding sea of crystal chandeliers, gold leaf, silk gowns, and tailored tuxedos. High society was gathered for the annual St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital Charity Gala—the most prestigious social event of the autumn season.
Harper stood near a towering ice sculpture, holding a glass of untouched champagne.
She felt completely transformed, yet entirely alienated from her own body. She wore an emerald green silk gown designed by an Italian fashion house that Vincent had ordered to the estate two days prior. The gown hugged her slender waist, flowing down to the marble floor like liquid jewel tones, while delicate diamond drop earrings sparkled at her neck. Her dark hair was styled in an elegant updo, exposing the graceful line of her neck.
Beside her stood Vincent. He looked devastatingly handsome in a classic black tuxedo, his dark hair immaculate, his presence magnetic and dominant.
For the past hour, Vincent had kept his hand resting firmly on the small of Harper’s back. The touch was warm, heavy, and constant. To any outsider looking in, he was a possessive, deeply enamored husband keeping his stunning young wife close to his side.
“Smile, Harper,” Vincent murmured quietly near her ear, his lips almost brushing her hair as he gestured to a group of socialites chatting nearby. “Mrs. Montgomery is looking at us. She writes the society column for the city gazette.”
Harper forced a radiant, breathtaking smile onto her face, turning her head to look up into Vincent’s cold gray eyes.
“Is this smiling enough, darling?” she whispered back under her breath, her eyes flashing with a touch of fiery defiance. “Or should I gaze at you like you’re the center of the universe?”
A genuine, faint glint of amusement flashed across Vincent’s dark features. His hand tightened slightly against her waist, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer.
“Gazing would be preferred,” Vincent replied softly. “You’re doing remarkably well, little waitress.”
“Don't call me that,” Harper muttered, maintaining her gorgeous smile for the distant cameras.
Before Vincent could reply, a tall, older man with slick silver hair, an impeccably tailored navy tuxedo, and a harsh, aristocratic face approached them. Beside him walked a sharp-faced young woman in a ruby dress who was staring at Harper with open contempt.
The atmosphere around Vincent shifted instantly. The subtle warmth lingering between him and Harper evaporated, replaced by an icy, lethal stillness.
“Vincent,” the older man said, his voice smooth and dripping with hidden poison. “I heard a rumor that you had taken a wife, but I refused to believe it until I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Dominic,” Vincent acknowledged coldly, his tone devoid of any emotion. “I didn't think you attended charity events unless there was a land deed to steal.”
Harper’s pulse quickened. Dominic Moretti.
She recognized the name instantly from local news reports. The head of the Moretti crime family—the principal rivals to the Romano empire, and the men widely suspected of feeding information to the federal prosecutors currently trying to indict Vincent.
Dominic’s sharp eyes slid onto Harper, examining her from head to toe like a piece of livestock.
“And who is this delicate little flower?” Dominic asked, taking a step closer. “She doesn't look like an heiress from the syndicate families. Where did you find her, Vincent? A back-alley bar?”
The young woman beside Dominic sneered softly.
Harper felt a surge of anger ignite in her chest. She had survived six months of Richard’s abuse, worked eighteen-hour shifts in a grease-covered diner, and sacrificed her entire youth to protect her sister. She was not about to let an arrogant old mobster treat her like trash in a silk dress.
Before Vincent could speak or react, Harper took a small step forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her husband. She looked Dominic straight in his cold eyes, her head held high.
“My name is Harper Romano, Mr. Moretti,” she said, her voice clear, sweet, and perfectly calm, carrying across the quiet circle of onlookers. “And Vincent found me in a place where people value loyalty, hard work, and real strength—concepts I imagine you have a terrible time comprehending.”
Dominic’s eyes widened slightly in shock. The young woman beside him gasped softly.
Vincent turned his head to look at Harper, a look of profound, stunned fascination passing through his gray eyes.
Dominic recovered quickly, a nasty, dangerous smile spreading across his wrinkled face. “Festy little thing, isn't she? Be careful, my dear. Playing the wife of a man like Vincent Romano is a dangerous game. Accidents happen on the docks... people slip under the water and never resurface.”
“If anyone slips into the water, Dominic,” Vincent interrupted, stepping between Dominic and Harper, his voice dropping into a register that made the surrounding air feel thick with violence, “it will be the man who threatens my wife. Get out of my sight before I forget we are in a ballroom.”
The threat was so direct, so terrifyingly calm, that Dominic’s smile vanished completely. He glared at Vincent for a long, tense second, then turned on his heel and walked away into the crowd, his daughter scurrying behind him.
Harper stood there, her chest rising and falling rapidly as the adrenaline began to fade.
Vincent turned to her. He raised his hand and gently cupped her jaw, his large thumb brushing across her soft cheekbone. His touch was surprisingly tender, contrasting violently with the lethal threat he had uttered moments before.
“That was foolish,” Vincent murmured, his eyes searching her face. “Dominic Moretti is a dangerous monster. You should not have provoked him.”
“He insulted me,” Harper said, her breath catching as she felt the heat of his palm against her skin. “And he insulted you. I’m playing my role, isn't that what you paid for?”
Vincent stared down at her, his grip on her jaw lingering for a second too long before he slowly dropped his hand.
“You are not playing a role, Harper,” Vincent whispered softly, his eyes darkening with something primal and intense. “You are far too good at it.”
Before Harper could answer, a loud commotion broke out near the main glass entrance of the ballroom.
CRASH.
The heavy double glass doors swung open violently. A tall, middle-aged man in a wrinkled raincoat burst into the ballroom, pushing past the panicked security guards. He was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, clutching something tightly inside his heavy jacket.
Harper gasped.
It was Richard.
“Harper!” Richard screamed, his voice echoic and crazed across the magnificent ballroom, drawing the attention of every wealthy guest, reporter, and photographer in the room. “You dirty little thief! You lied to the judge! You bought a mobster to steal my family’s money!”
The ballroom descended into instant chaos. Women gasped, backing away in terror as photographers rushed forward, flashbulbs exploding instantly as they captured the insane spectacle.
Richard pulled a gleaming silver revolver from his coat pocket, his hand shaking violently as he aimed it directly at Harper.
“Give me my sister’s trust fund!” Richard shrieked, his mind clearly unhinged by alcohol and despair. “Or I’ll end you right here!”
Harper froze, terror paralyzing her limbs as she stared down the black barrel of the gun.
“Harper!”
In a fraction of a second, before Richard’s trembling finger could squeeze the trigger, Vincent moved with inhuman speed.
He tackled Harper to the floor, wrapping his massive body completely over hers, shielding her head and chest with his broad back as they crashed onto the marble tiles behind the ice sculpture.
BANG!
A deafening gunshot shattered the air. Glass exploded nearby as a chandelier panel shattered. Screams erupted throughout the ballroom as guests scrambled for the exits in absolute terror.
Harper lay beneath Vincent, her cheek pressed against his warm chest, her hands gripping his tuxedo jacket tightly. She was shaking uncontrollably, hearing the frantic beat of his heart against her ear.
Vincent lifted his head slightly. His face was a mask of dark, murderous fury—the terrifying face of a predator whose territory had been invaded.
“Stay down,” Vincent commanded her, his voice a low, terrifying growl.
He pushed himself up and turned toward Richard. Mateo and three hidden security guards had already tackled Richard to the ground, disarming the weeping, screaming man and pinning him firmly against the marble floor.
Vincent stood up slowly. He adjusted his dark cuffs, stepping over the shattered glass toward the struggling Richard.
May you like
Vincent looked down at the man who had dared to pull a gun on his wife.
“Mateo,” Vincent said, his voice entirely devoid of human mercy. “Take him to the basement at the docks. I will handle him myself tonight.”
