Chapter 10 - The Queen of Chicago
Six months later.
The private dining room at L’Étoile was once again booked for an exclusive executive dinner. The Venetian plaster walls absorbed the quiet hum of light jazz, and the crystal chandelier cast its warm amber light over the polished mahogany table, fresh linen, and silver cutlery.
Sitting at the head of the table was Viktor Morozov, looking impeccably powerful in a custom black Italian tuxedo. Beside him sat Sasha, wearing a breathtaking emerald-green velvet dress that exposed her pale shoulders and accentuated every curve of her figure.
Opposite them sat two senior representatives from the Italian syndicate on the East Side—men who had flown in from New York to negotiate shipping access to the Great Lakes trade routes. Beside them sat a high-ranking state senator whose vote was required for the final maritime port approvals.
The negotiations had been dragging on for two hours. The East Side representatives were playing tough, demanding a thirty percent cut of the port revenues, while the senator stammered excuses about state ethics oversight.
Viktor sat quietly, sipping his hundred-year-old scotch, letting the men talk themselves into a corner.
Finally, the lead East Side captain, a heavy man named Moretti with a loud voice and an expensive cigar, leaned forward, tapping his fingers impetuously against the table.
"Look, Morozov," Moretti grunted, glancing dismissively at Sasha. "We didn't fly out from New York to sit around sipping wine while your girl enjoys the scenery. Give us twenty-five percent, or we pull our union backing from the docks tomorrow morning."
The room went dead silent.
The state senator turned pale, remembering what happened to men who spoke disrespectfully in Viktor Morozov’s presence. The security guards standing near the doors shifted their weight slightly, their hands moving toward their coats.
Viktor did not raise his voice. He set his scotch glass down onto the table with a soft, deliberate click.
Before Viktor could speak, Sasha reached for her wine glass.
It was a slow, graceful, deliberate motion. Her slender hand moved through the amber light of the chandelier. On her ring finger, the heavy platinum band and deep blue sapphire caught the light, throwing a brilliant blue reflection directly into Moretti’s eyes.
Moretti froze. His eyes dropped from her face to the blue sapphire gleaming on her finger. He recognized the crest custom-engraved into the platinum side of the band—the official seal of the Morozov family estate.
Sasha took a slow sip of her red wine, set the glass back down, and rested her elbow on the table, leaning her chin on her hand as she looked directly at the East Side captain.
"Fifteen percent, Mr. Moretti," Sasha said smoothly. Her voice was calm, icy, and completely devoid of fear—the voice of a woman who had learned how power worked from the master himself. "You will accept fifteen percent of the port revenue, and your union workers will clear the North Side docks by six o'clock Monday morning."
Moretti swallowed hard. He looked from Sasha’s cool, unblinking eyes to Viktor, who was sitting back in his chair, a look of profound, dark pride gleaming in his gray eyes.
"And if we refuse?" Moretti stammered, his bravado rapidly evaporating under her sharp gaze.
Sasha smiled—a slow, breathtaking, terrifying smile that matched Viktor’s own cold composure.
"If you refuse, Mr. Moretti," Sasha said softly, adjusting the platinum ring on her finger, "the traffic pattern your union trucks encounter on Monday morning will involve federal inspectors, tax audits, and three moving vans outside your headquarters in Manhattan."
Moretti stared at her for three agonizing seconds. The state senator sat motionless, holding his breath.
Finally, Moretti let out a long, heavy breath, lowering his cigar to his plate. He reached for his pen, pulling the contract toward himself.
"Fifteen percent," Moretti muttered, signing his name across the bottom line. "Monday morning."
Viktor reached across the tablecloth under the cover of the fine linen, his broad, warm hand closing over Sasha’s left hand. His thumb gently stroked the dark platinum band and the indestructible blue sapphire resting against her skin.
May you like
Sasha turned her head, looking into his pale gray eyes, offering him a quiet, intimate smile that only he was allowed to see.
The girl who had once bled in a South Side hallway was gone, buried forever beneath the rain-slicked streets of the past. In her place sat the undisputed queen of the Morozov empire—fearless, unyielding, and forever standing at the side of the most dangerous man in Chicago.
