Chapter 4 - The Gala at the Plaza
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and the glittering diamonds of Manhattan's commercial elite.
Over three hundred corporate directors, municipal judges, and real estate magnates sat around thirty circular banquet tables draped in ivory silk.
At the center raised dais sat the Sterling family: Richard Sterling, seventy years old, draped in tailored Brioni, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, and his younger brother Vincent, whose scarred jawline and sharp, predatory eyes surveyed the room like a hawk looking for prey.
"The bond allocation passes at midnight, Richard," Vincent murmured, leaning over his crystal tumbler of scotch. "The union rep took the check, the city inspector signed the load-bearing waivers, and our team in Astoria confirmed the girl hasn't returned to her apartment since morning. She’s probably sleeping in a shelter."
Richard smiled—a thin, cruel smirk of total, uncontested victory. "An ironworker's widow has no endurance, Vincent. By tomorrow, the Hudson Yards project belongs entirely to us."
The heavy double mahogany doors at the main entrance of the ballroom swung open with a resounding, thunderous crash.
The ninety-piece orchestra faltered, the violins dying mid-measure. The room fell into an immediate, paralyzed silence.
Stepping onto the red carpet threshold was Alessandro Duca.
He was dressed in an immaculate, bespoke midnight-blue three-piece tuxedo, his posture radiating the absolute, terrifying sovereignty of an undisputed emperor.
Walking beside him, with her hand resting proudly on his arm, was Elena.
I was not wearing a gray housekeeping dress. I wore a custom-tailored emerald-green silk evening gown, my dark hair swept back in an elegant chignon, wearing the Duca family heirloom diamond-and-emerald necklace against my collarbone.
And cradled securely in Alessandro’s left arm, wearing an exquisite miniature ivory lace dress and soft white satin slippers, was eight-month-old Mia.
The entire ballroom stood up in unison, several corporate partners dropping their champagne flutes onto the linen tables in sheer, paralyzed shock.
Richard Sterling’s face turned the color of curdled milk. Vincent’s hand froze around his glass, the scotch trembling against the rim.
Alessandro did not look at the three hundred guests. He walked straight down the center aisle of the ballroom, his polished leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the hardwood, until he stopped three feet from the Sterling family’s central dais.
"Good evening, Richard," Alessandro said, his deep baritone carrying across the silent hall without the aid of a microphone. "Vincent."
Richard scrambled to his feet, his patrician mask attempting to reassemble itself. "Alessandro! What... what is the meaning of this theater? You bring a domestic woman and an infant to the Metropolitan Gala?"
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Alessandro looked down at Mia, who reached out her tiny hand toward the centerpiece flowers, smiling fearlessly in the glare of the chandeliers.
"I bring the owner of Hudson Yards to her table, Richard," Alessandro replied, his voice cold as black ice. "And I have come to collect her balance due."
