Chapter 7 - The Eve of the Gala
The night before the autumn gala, Lake Forest was enveloped in an eerie, frozen quiet.
Inside the estate, final preparations were being completed under military-like security protocols. The grand ballroom on the ground floor had been transformed into a majestic hall of crystal, black silk drapery, and towering floral arrangements of white roses and dark greenery. Extra security guards—men brought in from Dominic's private tactical units in Detroit and New York—were stationed every twenty feet along the perimeter walls.
In the master suite, Dominic stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his bespoke black tuxedo.
Charlene sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. She wore a stunning custom maternity evening gown made of deep midnight-blue velvet that draped elegantly over her seven-month belly, framing her pale skin and dark hair like a painting. Around her neck rested a breath-taking double-strand diamond necklace—an heirloom piece from the Hamilton vault that had belonged to Dominic's grandmother.
Dominic turned around, his eyes sweeping over her. For a long moment, the ruthless mob boss was rendered completely speechless.
He walked across the room, dropping to his knees before her, taking her small, gloved hands in his broad palms.
"You look..." Dominic swallowed hard, his dark eyes shining with intense emotion. "You look like an empress, Charlene."
"I feel like I'm wearing a mortgage around my neck," she laughed softly, touching the cold diamonds at her collarbone.
Dominic smiled, leaning up to press his lips gently against hers. "That necklace is worth two million dollars. And it looks cheap compared to you."
He rested his cheek against her warm belly, closing his eyes, listening to the faint, steady rhythm of his daughter's life inside.
"Tonight it ends," Dominic murmured into the velvet fabric of her dress. "Tonight every man who looked down on you, every politician who thought they could buy my silence, and every rival who thought I was weak will see who rules this city."
"Dominic," Charlene took his face between her hands, forcing him to look into her eyes. "Be careful. Petrov is desperate. Desperate men don't play by rules."
"I don't play by rules either, sweetheart," Dominic replied, his face hardening into an expression of cold, absolute power. "I make them."
A knocking sounded at the door. Vincent stepped inside, wearing a dark tuxedo, his expression serious.
"Boss," Vincent reported. "The guests are arriving at the gates. The Irish delegation just cleared security—Liam O'Rourke is in the main lounge with ten of his lieutenants. Senator Garcia and his daughter have just pulled up the drive."
Dominic stood up slowly, smoothing the front of his tuxedo jacket.
"And Petrov?" Dominic asked.
"Petrov's convoy entered the estate five minutes ago," Vincent said quietly. "He brought twenty men. Five of them entered the house with him; the rest are waiting in their vehicles near the West Wing courtyard, exactly where we expected them."
"Good," Dominic said, offering his arm to Charlene.
Charlene stood up gracefully, sliding her hand through his broad arm, her palm resting securely against the thick wool of his sleeve.
"Are you ready, Mrs. Hamilton?" Dominic asked softly, looking into her eyes.
Charlene held his gaze, her chin held high, her spine straight as steel.
May you like
"I've been ready for eight months, Dominic," she said clearly.
Together, they walked out of the master suite, down the long marble corridor, toward the grand staircase leading to the ballroom below.
