Chapter 4 - The Gala of Knives
The invitation arrived on thick vellum with embossed gold lettering: The Annual Chicago Harbor Commission Charity Gala, The Drake Hotel. It was the city’s worst-kept secret—an elite gathering where politicians, federal judges, and high-ranking mafia bosses drank champagne together under the guise of civic philanthropy.
""You need to be seen,"" Luca told me as he stood in the dressing room of my suite.
On the velvet chaise lounge lay an emerald-green silk gown, cut low in the back with a high slit up the side, accompanied by a diamond tennis necklace that glittered like ice.
""If we hide you,"" Luca explained, adjusting his black silk bowtie in the mirror, ""Dante will whisper to the Council that you are my secret prisoner, proving your guilt. But if you walk in on my arm, wearing fifty thousand dollars in diamonds, you are no longer a suspect. You are a Ferrante asset. In our world, perception is armor.""
""And if Connor is watching?"" I asked, smoothing the sleek silk over my hips. The dress fit like a second skin, elegant yet daring. It was a million miles away from the neon spandex I wore at Obsidian.
Luca turned and looked at me. His breath caught—a tiny, involuntary hitch in his chest that he couldn't completely hide. For three seconds, he didn't look like an untouchable mob boss. He looked like a man utterly undone.
""If Connor is watching,"" Luca murmured, his voice husky, ""he will realize he threw away a queen for pocket change. And he will realize that what he abandoned now belongs to me.""
My heart hammered against my ribs, an intoxicating mix of dread and electric excitement humming through my veins.
An hour later, the Grand Ballroom of the Drake was bathed in crystal chandeliers and orchestral jazz. Chicago’s elite moved like sharks in silk. As soon as Luca entered with my hand tucked into the crook of his arm, the hum of conversation dropped an octave. Whispers traveled across the room like ripples in water.
Look at Ferrante.
Who is that with him?
Is that the girl from the Delaware shell companies?
I kept my head high, channeling every drop of performance armor I had built during my years on stage. I wasn't Mara the broke student or Mara the exhausted mother. Tonight, I was steel wrapped in emerald silk.
Luca leaned down, his lips brushing my ear as we took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. ""You’re doing magnificent, piccolo fiore.""
Before I could reply, a tall, impeccably groomed man with silver-streaked hair and a cold, patrician face stepped into our path. Behind him stood Dante, smirking like a hyena.
""Uncle Salvatore,"" Luca greeted smoothly, dipping his head with calculated respect.
Salvatore Ferrante, the acting patriarch of the Commission and the oldest living don in the state, didn't smile. His cold grey eyes raked over me with surgical precision.
""So this is the girl,"" Salvatore said, his Italian accent thick and rasping. ""The one whose name is stamped on forty million dollars of missing syndicate funds. You bring a dancer to the high table, Luca? Have you lost your mind?""
""Her name is Mara Calloway,"" Luca replied, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying timber that commanded the room. ""And she didn't steal your money, Salvatore. Connor Walsh did. And within forty-eight hours, she is going to hand you the encryption keys to every cent he took.""
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Salvatore took a slow step toward me, his gaze drilling into my soul. ""Is that true, young lady? Because if you are lying to protect that Irish rat, not even Luca’s love can save you from an open grave in Gary, Indiana.""
My mouth was dry, but I looked Salvatore dead in the eyes. ""Connor Walsh stole my life savings, abandoned our daughter, and tried to frame me for murder. I wouldn't cross the street to spit on him if he was on fire. Give me forty-eight hours, Don Salvatore, and I won't just give you your money back. I’ll give you Connor Walsh’s head on a silver platter.""
