Chapter 4 - The War for ChicagoBy 10:00 AM the following morning, the news that Roman Gallagher had taken a night-shift waitress from the Onyx Club into his private estate detonated across Chicago's high-stakes corporate and criminal underworld.
Rival syndicate Don, Marcus Moretti—a bitter, fifty-five-year-old crime boss who controlled the rival shipping terminals—believed Roman had grown soft, distracted, and vulnerable.
At 2:00 PM, a formal summons arrived at the Gallagher Estate on heavy, gold-embossed cardstock:
THE MORETTI FAMILY COUNCIL
THE DRAKE HOTEL — CHICAGO
ATTENDANCE MANDATORY FOR DON ROMAN GALLAGHER
Inside the master dressing suite, I stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror wearing an exquisite, custom emerald-green silk dress provided by Roman’s private tailor. The dress draped gracefully over my curves, highlighting my dark hair styled in glossy waves, while a delicate platinum necklace holding an eight-carat uncut emerald rested against my collarbone.
Roman stepped up behind me, wearing an immaculate black tuxedo. He wrapped his broad, warm arms around my waist, pulling my back flush against his broad chest, resting his chin against my temple.
"You take my breath away, Clara," Roman whispered into the mirror, his storm-gray eyes shining with an absolute, unshakeable devotion.
"Roman," I murmured, turning in his arms to rest my hands against his broad lapels. "Moretti is setting a trap for you at the Drake. He thinks I'm your weakness."
Roman offered a rare, breathtaking smile—a look of pure, sovereign confidence that made his severe face look agonizingly handsome.
"Moretti is an idiot, Clara," Roman promised softly, leaning down to press a sweet, lingering kiss against my lips. "He thinks you are my weakness. He doesn't realize you are my armor."
Twenty minutes later, a fleet of six black armored Maybachs pulled up to the red carpet outside the Drake Hotel.
When Roman walked through the mahogany double doors of the grand ballroom, holding my hand securely in his broad palm, flanked by twenty armed operators, the three hundred elite guests went dead, breathlessly silent.
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Marcus Moretti stood near the head table, wearing a dark suit, holding a crystal glass of scotch. Beside him stood David—my ex-boyfriend—who had sold details about my life to Moretti for fifty thousand dollars.
When David saw me walking beside the king of Chicago wearing millions of dollars in emeralds, his jaw sagged open in total, horror-stricken shock.
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