Chapter 6 - The Ambush at the Gala
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of black ties, diamonds, and champagne flutes. The Italian-American Heritage Gala was the crown jewel of Manhattan high society, an event where legitimate politicians, Wall Street titans, and underworld royalty rubbed shoulders under crystal chandeliers that had hung since the Gilded Age.
I was terrified.
Matteo had insisted that I attend. He had bought me a gown of emerald-green silk that clung to my waist and fell to the floor like liquid jade. Diamond studs glittered at my ears—borrowed from his family’s safe. My hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, exposing the delicate line of my neck.
When I stepped into the foyer beside him, his arm tucked securely beneath mine, a hush rippled through the grand room.
Matteo was wearing a classic tuxedo that concealed the bandages on his ribs. He looked magnificent, dangerous, and completely in command. But the real shock to the room was me. Matteo Ferrante had not been seen with a woman since Sofia’s death three years ago. By bringing me on his arm, he was sending an unmistakable, public declaration to every syndicate in the five boroughs: This woman belongs to me. Touch her, and you touch the Ferrante empire.
""Smile, Nadia,"" he murmured close to my ear, his breath warm against my neck. ""You are the most breathtaking woman in this room. Let them wonder who you are.""
""They're not wondering who I am,"" I whispered back, my heart pounding like a trapped bird. ""They're wondering how many days I have left to live.""
""Not while I breathe,"" he said, and the absolute certainty in his voice made something hot and unexpected flare in my chest.
We moved through the crowd. Men bowed their heads with deferential greetings: ""Don Matteo."" Women with platinum hair and Botoxed smiles offered polite, calculating nods. Then the crowd parted, and an older man with silver slicked hair and a gold cane stepped into our path.
Santoro. The head of the Brooklyn branch.
""Matteo,"" the older man purred, his voice like gravel grinding under a boot. ""You look well for a man who spent his Tuesday night near the water.""
""I always enjoy the harbor air, Uncle,"" Matteo replied smoothly, not a single muscle twitching in his face. ""Especially when the trash cleans itself up.""
Santoro’s eyes slid to me, cold and reptilian. ""And this must be the little bird from Bryant Park. The one who speaks Milanese. You should have kept her in Queens, Matteo. Green silk looks very cheap when it’s covered in red.""
Before Matteo could react, the lights in the grand ballroom flickered and died.
Total, suffocating darkness swallowed the room. Screams erupted instantly. Wine glasses shattered on the parquet floor.
In the fraction of a second before the shooting started, Matteo moved with terrifying speed. His arm hooked around my waist, lifting me off my feet, and threw both of us behind an overturned marble buffet table as the first deafening volley of suppressed gunfire tore through the plaster walls.
""Stay down!"" Matteo roared over the panic.
He drew a custom matte-black automatic from beneath his dinner jacket. Beside us, Gianni and three other Ferrante men formed a human shield, returning fire toward the balcony where muzzle flashes lit up the dark like strobe lights.
A ricochet chipped the marble right above my head, spraying white dust across my hair. I curled into a ball, my hands over my ears.
Then I heard Santoro’s voice cutting through the chaos from the terrace doors: ""Bring the girl! Leave the boy's father in pieces!""
Footsteps rushed toward our flank. Matteo leaned out, fired twice with lethal, unhurried accuracy, and two men collapsed into the shadows. But as he turned to reload, a massive figure tackled him from behind, driving him hard against the shattered marble base.
Matteo gasped, his injured ribs taking the full brunt of the impact. The gun slid across the floor, spinning straight toward my feet.
Santoro’s enforcer drew a combat knife, his blade aimed straight at Matteo’s throat.
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I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. The girl who used to serve coffee in Bryant Park disappeared.
I grabbed the heavy silver champagne bucket from the floor, swung it with every ounce of strength I had, and smashed it across the side of the attacker's head.
