Chapter 5 - The Gala of Wolves
Three days passed in a blur of silent tension.
I remained confined to the Westchester estate, though Julian no longer locked my door at night. I was allowed to walk through the grand library, the glass conservatory, and the rear gardens—always accompanied by two silent guards who kept a distance of ten paces.
On Friday afternoon, the housekeeper brought a dark velvet box to my room.
Inside was an emerald-green silk evening gown with an open back, a pair of black satin high heels, and a diamond tennis necklace that looked like it cost more than my apartment building on Avenue B.
A note sat beside the box, written in precise, elegant calligraphy:
Be downstairs at seven. We are going to dinner.
— J.V.
When I descended the grand marble staircase at seven o'clock, Julian was waiting at the bottom, wearing a black tuxedo with a dark green silk bow tie that perfectly matched the color of my dress.
He looked at me as I reached the final step, his slate-grey eyes sweeping over the emerald silk, the diamonds at my throat, and the dark hair pinned up behind my neck. For the first time since I had met him, his impenetrable mask faltered—just for a fraction of a second, his pupils dilating as he absorbed the sight of me.
"You look breathtaking, Elena," he said softly, extending his arm toward me.
I hesitated, then slid my hand through the crook of his elbow. His suit jacket was smooth, heavy, and smelled of cedar and expensive tobacco.
"Where are we going?" I asked under my breath as we walked toward the waiting Maybach.
"To the Waldorf Astoria," Julian replied as the guard opened the armored door for us. "Victor Moretti is hosting his annual charity gala for the municipal hospital."
I stopped dead on the gravel driveway. "You’re taking me to his party?"
"Victor believes you are dead," Julian explained, pulling me gently inside the car and sitting beside me. "He believes my organization is scrambled, panicking because of Thomas Kross’s betrayal. Tonight, I walk into his room with his missing witness on my arm."
"You’re using me as a provocation!" I gasped, clutching my velvet purse against my stomach. "You’re walking straight into his trap!"
"Victor’s strength relies on fear," Julian said calmly, reaching out to straighten the diamond necklace resting against my collarbone. His fingers lingered for a second against my warm skin, sending a strange, terrifying shiver down my spine. "When he sees you standing beside me—alive, untouched, wearing fifty thousand dollars of my family’s diamonds—he will realize his hit squad failed, his traitor is useless, and his time is up."
"And if his men pull guns in the middle of a ballroom?"
"They won't," Julian said with absolute confidence. "Victor is a politician now. He lives in the light. He cannot afford a shootout in front of three hundred city council members, federal judges, and newspaper reporters."
"And what if Thomas Kross is there?"
Julian’s eyes darkened into slate stone.
"Then Thomas Kross dies tonight," he whispered.
The Maybach glided through the rain-slicked streets of midtown Manhattan, stopping beneath the grand golden canopy of the Waldorf Astoria. Flashbulbs exploded instantly as uniformed valets rushed to open the car doors. Photographers shouted names, red carpets stretched across the marble foyer, and women in diamonds and fur moved through the doors like flocking swans.
Julian stepped out first, offering me his hand.
May you like
I took it. My fingers locked into his with a fierce, desperate grip born of pure survival instinct.
We walked through the grand brass revolving doors and stepped directly into the den of wolves.
