Chapter 10 - THE MAYOR’S GALA
The Museum of Fine Arts was transformed into a glittering palace of elite opulence for the Mayor’s Charity Ball. Crystal chandeliers reflected off polished marble floors, string quartets played classical melodies from an elevated balcony, and Boston’s highest society mingled over flutes of vintage champagne.
But beneath the veneer of high-class charity, the air was thick with tension.
When Damon and I stepped through the grand double doors, every conversation in the foyer died instantly. All eyes locked onto us—specifically onto me, the unknown event planner hanging onto the arm of the most feared mafia boss in New England.
Damon didn't flinch. He kept his stride steady and confident, his hand resting securely at my waist just as he had promised.
As we descended the grand marble staircase toward the main ballroom, Salvatore Rossi stepped out from a group of city councilmen, holding a glass of amber scotch, a predatory grin plastered across his face.
"Damon! Welcome," Rossi called out, his voice carrying easily across the silent room. He stepped right into our path, blocking our descent. His dark eyes flicked toward me with malicious amusement. "And you brought the little event planner. How brave. Or how foolish?"
Damon’s body went completely rigid beside me, the muscle in his jaw ticking dangerously.
"Move aside, Salvatore," Damon warned, his voice dropping into a lethal register that made the surrounding guests step back in terror. "You are standing in front of my future wife. And I am in a very bad mood tonight."
Rossi laughed, raising his glass mockingly. "A wife? Let’s see how much she’s smiling when the music stops, Damon. Because tonight, the game changes."
Before Rossi could finish his sentence, the lights in the grand museum flickered violently, plunging the ballroom into sudden, pitch-black darkness.
A collective gasp ripped through the crowd.
In the sudden chaos, a sharp metallic click echoed from the balcony directly above us—the unmistakable sound of a sniper rifle bolt sliding into place.
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Damon didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. He threw his arms around me, shoving me hard to the marble floor just as a deafening gunshot shattered the glass chandelier directly above where we had been standing seconds before.
The war had officially begun. And as I lay pinned beneath Damon’s solid, protective weight in the dark museum, I knew there was no going back to my old life. I was a Castellano now. And we were going to burn their entire empire to the ground.
