Chapter 4 - The Gala of Wolves
Teresa did not survive the night in the Moretti underground interrogation cells, but before she took her last breath, she gave up the digital paper trail: Victoria Sterling had transferred the money directly from an offshore shell company.
However, Victoria was clever. The account was layered through three Swiss dummy corporations, making it impossible to arrest her through legal channels without tipping off the corrupt federal judges in her pocket.
""We strike back where she feels it most,"" Vincent told me that evening in his study, pouring us both a glass of wine. ""Tomorrow is the annual Chicago Heritage Gala at the Drake Hotel. Every politician, high-ranking mob boss, and federal judge will be in attendance. Victoria thinks she has rattled us. She expects you to hide in this house, trembling.""
He walked over to my chair, placing his hands gently on either side of my face, his gray eyes burning with fierce conviction.
""Will you stand by my side tomorrow night, Evelyn? Will you show them who the true Queen of Chicago is?""
I looked into the eyes of the man who had sheltered me, defended me, and treated me like royalty. A fire sparked deep inside my chest—a fire that had been buried under years of humiliation and self-doubt.
""I won't just stand by you, Vincent,"" I said softly, a dangerous smile touching my lips. ""I'll make them kneel.""
The following night, the Drake Hotel was packed with the city’s elite. Diamonds shimmered, crystal chandeliers clinked, and the whisper mill was operating at full capacity. Victoria Sterling stood in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by sycophants and high-society matrons, boasting loudly about her upcoming custody victory.
""Vincent took in a frightened cow,"" Victoria was overheard mocking with a glass of champagne. ""She won't even dare to show her face in public. She knows she belongs in the scullery.""
Suddenly, the massive double doors of the ballroom were pushed wide open.
""Announcing,"" the head usher proclaimed, his voice booming over the string quartet, ""Don Vincent Moretti and Donna Evelyn Moretti.""
The entire ballroom turned, and the music sputtered into an astonished silence.
Vincent stepped into the room looking like absolute royalty in a midnight-black tuxedo with satin lapels. But all eyes immediately fell upon me.
I wore a breathtaking, custom-fitted crimson silk gown designed to hug every single curve of my hourglass figure with unapologetic glamour. A sweetheart neckline flattered my collarbones, and draped around my neck was the legendary Moretti heirloom necklace—a cluster of pigeon-blood Burmese rubies valued at over seven million dollars. My dark hair fell in glamorous Hollywood waves, my skin glowed, and I held my head high with absolute, regal poise.
I wasn’t a skinny, trembling victim. I was voluptuous, stunning, and radiant—a woman who owned every inch of the space she occupied.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Men stared with undisguised admiration, while the women who had come to sneer suddenly felt plain and withered in comparison.
Vincent offered me his arm, his chest swollen with pride, and we glided into the center of the room.
Victoria’s glass of champagne slipped from her fingers, shattering on the polished parquet floor. Her face was purple with disbelief and fury.
I walked straight toward her, stopping only inches away, looking down at her with calm, effortless amusement.
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""Good evening, Victoria,"" I purred, my voice smooth and carrying across the hushed crowd. ""I must thank you for recommending that chamomile tea earlier this week. Unfortunately, it didn't agree with the dog. But as you can see... my appetite for justice has never been stronger.""
Victoria turned pale as death, taking an instinctive step back as the whispering crowd began to murmur in shocked realization.
