Chapter 4 - The Black Tie Ambush
Staying under Dante Moretti’s “personal protection” turned out to involve very little staying hidden and a great deal of high-stakes confrontation.
By Friday evening, Christine found herself standing in front of a full-length mirror in the penthouse suite, wearing an emerald-green satin evening gown that hugged every curve of her body. The dress was an unapologetic statement—daring, elegant, and cut low enough in the back to demand attention. Her dark hair was swept up in loose curls, held by vintage emerald pins, and her signature berry lipstick provided the final touch of armor.
When the suite door opened, Dante stepped inside, wearing a custom midnight-black tuxedo. He stopped in his tracks, his dark eyes raking over her from head to toe with an intensity that made her skin tingle.
“You look breathtaking,” he said, his voice rough around the edges.
“I look like target practice,” Christine replied, adjusting her gold bracelet. “Are you sure attending the Vance Charity Gala is the smartest way to handle a corporate war? If Vance is as dangerous as you claim, we’re walking into a hornets’ nest.”
“Vance thinks he’s a king because nobody has ever publicly stripped him of his leverage,” Dante said, stepping closer and offering his arm. “Tonight, the city’s major institutional lenders are in that ballroom. If we don’t show up, they assume Marco’s arrest crippled my business. We show them strength. And you show them that the Moretti books are ironclad.”
Christine looped her arm through his, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath his fine wool jacket. “Just try not to throw anyone through a window tonight. Dry cleaning this silk would be a nightmare.”
A genuine laugh rumbled in Dante’s chest. “I make no promises.”
The Vance Gala was held at the historical Riverfront Conservatory, a sprawling glass palace filled with ice sculptures, cascading champagne towers, and five hundred of the state’s wealthiest elites. When Dante and Christine stepped onto the marble floor, the ambient chatter dropped dramatically. Cameras flashed, whispers spread like wildfire, and heads turned in unison.
Across the ballroom, standing near an opulent ice fountain, was Julian Vance.
Vance was silver-haired, impeccably tailored, and exuded an oily, ruthless charm. His eyes narrowed with venomous rage the moment he spotted Dante, but within seconds, he forced a smug, practiced smile onto his face and glided across the floor toward them, a glass of vintage scotch in hand.
“Dante,” Vance purred, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m surprised to see you out in public after the tragic... internal scandal involving poor Marco. Such a shame when family turns out to be untrustworthy.”
“Marco was sloppy,” Dante said evenly, holding Vance’s gaze without an ounce of warmth. “And sloppy people always end up where they belong. In a cell.”
Vance’s gaze slid over to Christine, his lips curling into a dismissive smirk. “And who is this lovely distraction? Don't tell me you’ve resorted to bringing cheap Boise accounting temps as arm candy to distract your creditors, Dante.”
The insult was deliberate, designed to bait Dante into violence in front of three dozen banking executives and local journalists. Christine felt Dante’s arm tense, his knuckles whitening as he prepared to strike.
Christine stepped forward smoothly, placing a gentle hand on Dante’s forearm to hold him back. She smiled sweetly at Vance, her eyes sharp as scalpels.
“Actually, Mr. Vance, I’m the CPA who traced your Cayman Island holding accounts to an unauthorized sub-lease agreement in the industrial district,” Christine announced in a clear, carrying voice that turned every head within ten yards.
Vance’s smile froze.
“It’s fascinating, really,” Christine continued with devastating calm, taking a sip from her champagne flute. “For a man who boasts about liquid solvency, your short-term debt-to-equity ratio is currently sitting at a catastrophic four-to-one. You desperately needed Moretti Holdings’ shipping terminals to collateralize a thirty-million-dollar default notice issued by First Pacific Bank yesterday morning. Isn't that right?”
The surrounding bankers gasped. Two senior loan officers from First Pacific exchanged urgent, alarmed glances.
Vance’s face turned an ugly, mottled shade of crimson. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, you insolent little—”
May you like
“I have the certified debt disclosures filed with the Securities Commission, Mr. Vance,” Christine cut in, raising her eyebrow. “Would you like me to project them onto the ballroom wall, or would you prefer to explain to your lenders why your checks are bouncing before dinner is served?”
Dante looked down at her, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph flashing in his dark eyes. He leaned into Vance’s ear and whispered loud enough for the nearby crowd to hear: “I told you, Julian. Don't mess with my numbers.”
