Chapter 10 - The Moonstone Queen
One year later.
The annual Winter Charity Gala at the St. Aurelia Hotel was in full, breathtaking swing.
The grand ballroom glittered under the massive crystal chandeliers, filled with the same orchestra, the same politicians, the same judges, and the same high-society elite who had sat in terrified silence twelve months before.
In the center of the room, standing near the grand marble staircase, stood Ava Rossi.
She looked spectacular. She wore a tailored velvet gown the color of midnight blue, a diamond collar that had belonged to her grandmother resting against her collarbone, her posture erect, commanding, and absolute.
Beside her, holding a small silver rattle, was a nanny watching little Isabella, who wore a tiny white dress and giggled as she watched the light dance off the crystal chandeliers.
Senator Whitcomb walked up to Ava, holding two glasses of sparkling mineral water. He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of deference he had never offered to Dominic Moretti in his entire life.
“Mrs. Rossi,” Whitcomb said smoothly. “The port infrastructure bill passed the Senate committee this afternoon. Unanimously.”
“I know, Senator,” Ava replied with a small, brilliant smile. “I read the draft before your committee voted on it.”
Whitcomb chuckled, a bit nervous. “Of course you did. You always know before we do.”
He looked around the magnificent room, taking in the respectful glances from the capos, the politicians, and the CEOs who moved through Ava’s orbit like planets around a sun.
“You’ve rebuilt everything in a single year, Ava,” Whitcomb murmured, genuine admiration in his voice. “Most people thought the Moretti fall would drag the whole city down into a gang war.”
Ava turned her gaze toward the lit stage at the front of the room—the exact spot where Dominic had stood twelve months ago, drunk on his own fake power.
“Dominic was a shadow, Senator,” Ava said, her voice clear, calm, and resonant. “He thought he owned the room because he was allowed to stand near the light. He forgot that shadows disappear the moment you turn the lights on.”
She took a slow sip of her drink, looking over at her daughter, who was sleeping peacefully in her stroller despite the loud music of the orchestra.
A waiter walked past carrying a tray of champagne glasses. On the front page of the New York Times resting on a lounge table nearby, a small headline read: FORMER EXECUTIVE DOMINIC MORETTI TRANSFERRED TO MAXIMUM SECURITY FACILITY.
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Ava didn't even look at the paper.
She adjusted the diamond collar at her throat, turned her back on the stage, and walked toward the head table—the table where the queen sat alone, holding every ledger that mattered.
