Chapter 9 - Claimed Before the City
Two nights later, the annual Mayor’s Charity Gala at the Grand Continental Hotel was the most exclusive event of the season. Every billionaire, politician, and mafia Don in the tristate area was in attendance, dressed in designer tuxedos and glittering diamond gowns, sipping vintage champagne beneath towering crystal chandeliers.
The room buzzed with nervous tension. Everyone knew the Moretti-Vance alliance had collapsed. Everyone knew war was coming.
Arthur Vance stood near the center of the ballroom, surrounded by three burly Russian enforcers he had hired for protection, looking smug and untouchable. He held a glass of scotch, waiting for his Bratva allies to arrive so he could publicly humiliate Luca Moretti and declare his independence.
Then, the massive mahogany double doors at the end of the ballroom swung open.
The orchestra stopped playing mid-song. The ambient chatter died instantly, plunging the massive hall into an absolute, suffocating vacuum of sound.
Luca Moretti walked into the ballroom.
He wore a bespoke midnight-black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders like a second skin. But it wasn't Luca’s intimidating presence that made the hundreds of elite guests gasp in shock and step backward.
It was the woman on his arm.
Naomi Carter wore a breathtaking, backless emerald-silk evening gown that hugged her curves to perfection, her dark hair styled in cascading waves, and a stunning, heirloom diamond necklace sparkling against her collarbone—a necklace previously reserved exclusively for Moretti matriarchs.
She looked like royalty.
Arthur Vance dropped his crystal glass of scotch. It shattered against the marble floor, the brown liquid splashing across his shiny Italian leather shoes. “What... what is the meaning of this?!” Arthur spluttered, stepping forward with his Russian bodyguards close behind. “Luca! Have you lost your mind? You bring a fucking maid to the highest society gala in the city while my daughter sits at home heartbroken?!”
Luca didn't stop walking. He guided Naomi gracefully toward the center of the ballroom, his hand resting securely and possessively against the small of her back.
“Your daughter is a criminal and a forger, Arthur,” Luca said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent hall. “And you are a desperate old man standing on the edge of a grave.”
“You think you can humiliate me?!” Arthur screeched, gesturing wildly to the three Russian enforcers. “Kill him! Kill them both right now!”
The three Russian thugs reached inside their suit jackets for their concealed sidearms.
They didn't even get their weapons halfway out.
From the shadows flanking the ballroom doors, six Moretti hitmen raised their suppressed pistols with terrifying synchronization. Before a single guest could scream, three muffled pffft sounds echoed through the hall, and the three Russian enforcers dropped lifelessly to the floor, blood pooling across the pristine white marble.
Arthur Vance stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet and landing hard on his rear, staring at the corpses with wide, unseeing eyes of pure terror.
Luca didn't look at the dead bodies. He didn't look at the terrified politicians. He looked down at Naomi, his expression softening into something fierce, tender, and absolute.
In front of the entire city—in front of every rival boss, every corrupt politician, and every socialite who had ever looked down on her—Luca Moretti pulled Naomi against his chest, cupped her face with his large, warm hand, and kissed her deeply, thoroughly, and publicly.
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It wasn't just a kiss. It was a declaration of war, a claim of ownership, and a promise written in blood and silk.
“Meet my fiancée,” Luca announced to the trembling, silent ballroom, his dark eyes daring anyone in the room to challenge him. “The future queen of the Moretti empire.”
