Chapter 5 - The Gala
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of glittering gold leaf, soaring crystal chandeliers, and opulent floral arrangements that smelled faintly of roses and expensive perfume.
Six hundred people filled the vast floor—men in bespoke black tuxedos with lethal, cold eyes, and women draped in diamonds and silk gowns that cost more than a teacher's annual salary. Below the beautiful surface of high-society elegance, the air was thick with tension, power, and unspoken threats.
I stood at the top of the grand marble staircase, my hand resting securely on the crook of Ricardo’s arm.
I wore a floor-length dress of deep emerald silk that hugged my curves like a second skin, featuring a low, elegant back and a subtle slit up the side. My hair was styled in soft, glamorous waves over one shoulder, and around my neck hung a vintage platinum necklace encrusted with black diamonds—a loan from the Moretti vault. On my left hand, the massive black diamond engagement ring caught the light of the chandeliers, sparkling like a warning beacon.
Beside me, Ricardo was the epitome of lethal elegance. His black tuxedo was tailored to perfection, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His dark hair was styled back, his sharp jaw freshly shaved, and his amber eyes scanned the room below like a predator assessing a hunting ground.
"Remember," Ricardo whispered, his breath warm against my ear as he pulled me slightly closer to his side. "You don't need to speak to everyone. Smile, look devoted, and let me handle the wolves."
"I can handle wolves, Ricardo," I whispered back, my voice remarkably steady despite the nervous flutter in my stomach.
"Let's see," he murmured, a faint smirk touching his lips as he led me down the grand staircase.
The moment our feet touched the marble floor of the ballroom, the ambient chatter of six hundred guests noticeably dipped. Eyes swung toward us from every corner of the room. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry leaves.
Is that her? The girl from the restaurant? He actually put a ring on her? Who is she? Where did she come from?
Ricardo ignored them completely, guiding me through the crowd with absolute composure. Handshakes were exchanged, heads were bowed, and powerful men offered forced congratulations while eyeing me like an unsolved puzzle. I played my role to perfection: I smiled warmly, nodded gracefully, and kept my hand resting affectionately against Ricardo’s back, feeling the hard, dense muscle beneath his tuxedo jacket.
Around nine o'clock, as the orchestra began playing a smooth jazz waltz, a tall, broad-shouldered man with slicked-back grey hair and a sharp, cruel face approached us. He was accompanied by four heavy-set men whose jackets bulged conspicuously at the waist.
"Ricardo," the grey-haired man said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "Congratulations, my friend. I heard a rumor that you had taken a fiancée, but I didn't believe it until I saw the rock on her finger."
Ricardo’s posture instantly hardened, his grip on my waist tightening imperceptibly. "Viktor," Ricardo acknowledged, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy tone. "I didn't expect you to cross the bridge from Brooklyn tonight."
Viktor Romanov. The head of the Brooklyn Russian syndicate—the man responsible for the attack on Ricardo’s shipping warehouse three days ago.
"How could I miss the presentation of the new Moretti queen?" Viktor smiled, his cold blue eyes sliding over me like slime. He took my hand, lifting it to his lips, but before his mouth could touch my skin, Ricardo smoothly intercepted, pulling my hand away and stepping slightly in front of me.
Viktor chuckled darkly. "Protective, aren't we? She must be very special to calm the wild Don of New York."
Viktor’s gaze shifted past us, looking toward a group of men standing near the grand bar across the room. "I was just telling my associate here that marriage softens a man. Makes him slow. Makes him care about things that burn easily."
I followed Viktor’s gaze toward the bar, curiosity pulling my eyes away from the dangerous confrontation.
Standing near the marble bar was a tall man in his late thirties. He wore an expensive dark grey suit, sipping a glass of scotch. He had sharp, angular features, short dark hair, and a cruel, arrogant posture.
As if sensing my gaze, the man turned his head.
He held up his glass of scotch, taking a sip. As he raised his wrist, his shirt cuff pulled back slightly, exposing the pale skin above his watch.
There, inked onto the inner flesh of his right wrist, was a distinct, terrifying tattoo: a black viper coiled tightly around a broken hourglass.
The ballroom suddenly seemed to tilt on its axis.
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The glittering chandeliers turned into a dizzying blur of gold and white light. The sound of the jazz orchestra, the clinking crystal, and the laughter of the guests vanished, replaced by a deafening, terrifying roar of static echoing inside my skull.
My knees buckled.
