Chapter 4 - The Gala Ambush
Three weeks into her employment, Claire had completely transformed the administrative wing of Moretti Holdings.
She eliminated three redundant shell accounts, renegotiated the laundry contracts for six boutique hotels, and established a filing protocol that kept Dominic’s legitimate enterprises completely insulated from Sal’s red-tab affairs. Dominic’s accountants were terrified of her; his site managers respected her; and Dominic himself watched her with an open fascination that was becoming impossible to ignore.
Then came the invitation to the Symphony Ball.
It was the crown jewel of Chicago’s social calendar, held at the Palmer Grand Ballroom—the very venue that had fired Claire two months prior.
“You’re going with me,” Dominic announced on a rainy Monday evening as Claire was packing up her briefcase.
Claire froze. “I am your executive assistant, Mr. Moretti. I organize the tickets. I don't walk the red carpet.”
“You are going as my guest,” Dominic countered, stepping out of his office with his tie loosened and the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to his forearms. “The city council members will be there. The developers who are bidding against me for the riverfront parcel will be there. And more importantly, Viktor Rossi will be there.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Even Claire knew that name. Viktor Rossi controlled the south side rackets—a ruthless, unpredictable remnant of an older, bloodier syndicate that had been encroaching on Dominic’s legitimate logistics hubs for months.
“Is that safe?” Claire asked carefully.
“It is a high-society charity gala with three hundred cameras and half the Chicago Police Department brass in attendance,” Dominic said dryly. “It is the safest place in Illinois for two men who despise each other to share a drink. But Rossi operates on perceived weakness. If I arrive alone, rumors circulate that I am defensive, distracted. If I arrive with a breathtaking woman who commands the room, it changes the conversation.”
“Dominic,” Claire sighed, gesturing down at herself. “I am not the kind of woman Chicago executives take to black-tie galas to impress their rivals. You know the look people expect. Size two, blond highlights, silent.”
Dominic took two slow, measured steps toward her. The air between them suddenly felt thick, charged with static electricity. He stopped so close she could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises.
“Those women look like hangers for rented dresses,” Dominic whispered, his voice sending a shiver straight down her spine. “You have curves that belong in an Italian Renaissance painting. You walk into a room like you own the ground beneath your feet. I don't want a mannequin, Claire. I want you.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy and sweet.
“I don't have a dress for a gala,” she said weakly.
Dominic pulled a black card from his breast pocket and laid it on her desk. “Rosa has already arranged a private appointment at Saks Fifth Avenue tomorrow at two. Take Marco. Buy whatever makes you feel like an empress. Price is irrelevant.”
The following evening, Claire stepped out of the black limousine in front of the Palmer Grand, and the flashbulbs erupted.
She wore a custom off-the-shoulder emerald velvet gown that hugged every curve of her full figure, cascading into a structured mermaid train that swept the red carpet. Her thick, dark curls were pinned up in an elegant chignon, her lips painted the exact crimson of old Hollywood glamour. Around her neck sat a diamond-and-emerald collar that Rosa had insisted on loaning her from the family vault.
Beside her, Dominic in his bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo was absolute perfection. But as the cameras flashed, he didn't look at the photographers. He looked down at Claire, offering his arm with an expression of pride that made her heart leap into her throat.
“You look magnificent,” he murmured as they ascended the marble steps.
“I feel like I’m wearing the gross national product of a small island,” she whispered back.
Inside the ballroom, her former regional director—the man who had fired her for her aesthetic—stood near the VIP reception bar. When he saw Claire Bennett gliding across the marble on the arm of Dominic Moretti, his champagne flute tipped, spilling wine across his pristine white cuffs.
Claire caught his eye, gave him a dazzling, dismissive smile, and kept walking. Revenge, she realized, was a dish best served in emerald velvet.
Dominic led her toward the center circle, where a broad, silver-haired man with cold, reptile eyes stood surrounded by four bodyguards. Viktor Rossi.
“Dominic,” Rossi said in a raspy, gravel voice, eyeing Claire with blatant, predatory appraisal. “You brought color to the party tonight. I didn't think you had an eye for real women. Who is this lovely creature?”
“Miss Claire Bennett,” Dominic said, his hand resting possessively at the small of Claire’s back. The warmth of his palm anchored her. “My executive associate. And far more capable of handling numbers than anyone you employ, Viktor.”
Rossi laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound. “A smart girl with curves. Dangerous combination, Moretti. Be careful someone doesn't steal her away from you. Chicago is an unpredictable town for precious things.”
May you like
Dominic’s jaw set into stone. “Nothing that belongs to me has ever been stolen, Viktor. Not without the thief losing both his hands.”
The two men locked eyes—a silent, lethal standoff in the middle of a Mozart concerto. Claire felt the subterranean war churning beneath the polite society veneer, and for the first time, she understood: she wasn't just Dominic's assistant anymore. She was squarely in the crosshairs.
