Chapter 12 - Velvet and Venom
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel looked like something carved out of the Gilded Age, all gold leaf moldings, massive crystal chandeliers that chimed with every heavy gust of wind against the high arched windows, and waiters in white tuxedos gliding across plush Persian carpets. Yet every single guest seated at the long banquet tables was armed. Beneath the tailored silk lapels of the men and the beaded evening gowns of the women lay concealed ceramic blades, lightweight polymer handguns, and hearts as cold as cemetery marble.
Luca guided me through the arched entryway, his hand resting firmly against the small of my back. He wore a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo that made his broad shoulders look even more intimidating. I wore an emerald-green silk gown with an open back, my dark hair pinned up with vintage diamond clips, the sapphire engagement ring catching every beam of chandelier light. I kept my head high and my spine straight, just as Marcus had drilled into me during the three grueling security briefings over the past forty-eight hours.
"Breathe, little bird," Luca murmured, his voice pitched so low only I could hear the rumble in his chest. "You outrank every person in this room. Let them stare until their eyes rot out of their heads."
At the far end of the ballroom, sitting behind an elevated head table on a dais, sat Dominic Castiglione. He was barely thirty-five, sharp-featured, with slick blonde hair, cruel ice-blue eyes, and the arrogant smirk of an heir who had inherited a war machine without ever having to clean up the blood himself. Flanking him were four towering enforcers whose jackets bulged conspicuously at the armpits.
As we approached, Dominic didn't stand. He simply swirled his crystal glass of scotch, letting the amber liquid coat the glass before his eyes raked over me with insolent hunger. "So this is David Moretti's secret daughter. The little scrubwoman who brought uncle Salvatore to his knees. The rumors didn't do you justice, sweetheart. You're far prettier than a warehouse ledger."
Before Dominic could finish the sentence, Luca’s hand slammed flat against the center of the linen-covered table. The force rattled the crystal silverware and caused two champagne flutes to tip, spilling sparkling wine across the white cloth. The entire ballroom dropped into immediate, suffocating silence. The ambient chatter ceased. Waiters froze in their tracks.
"Watch your tongue, Dominic," Luca said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, carrying the weight of a guillotine blade sliding down its track. "Address my fiancée as Elena Moretti-Rossi, or I will cut your tongue out and feed it to the gulls outside your hotel window."
Dominic's guards reached inside their jackets, but Marcus and six Rossi soldiers stepped into the perimeter behind us, the crisp mechanical clicks of safety catches releasing echoing through the silent room like gunshots.
Dominic’s smirk tightened into a dangerous sneer. He waved his hand, signaling his bodyguards to stand down, though his eyes never left Luca’s face. "Still protective of your stray, Rossi? That’s charming. Truly. But sentimental bosses don't live long in this business. My uncle may be rotting away in a federal cell, but his contracts remain binding. David Moretti signed a blood compact with my father twenty years ago. The port terminals belong to Chicago. Hand over the signed conveyance deeds, or every single vessel bearing the Rossi crest gets sunk outside the harbor."
I didn't cower behind Luca. I stepped forward, resting my palm directly over Luca’s knuckles where they pressed into the wood, feeling the iron tension coiled in his sinew. I looked directly into Dominic’s pale eyes with a venom that shocked even myself.
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"My father died because he refused to let your family bleed the workers dry," I said clearly, my voice carrying across the silent tables. "The deeds are registered under an irrevocable public trust. Even if you put a bullet through my skull right here, the ownership reverts to the city of New York, not Chicago. You get nothing, Dominic. Not a single crate. Not a single dime."
Dominic leaned back, his cold eyes narrowing to slits as a dark, venomous laugh slipped from his chest. "Spoken like a true Moretti. A pity your loyalty to the Rossi name will cost you both your lives before midnight."
