Chapter 4 - The Threat at the GalaThree weeks passed like a sweet, blinding dream.
Every Thursday at 3:45 PM, a black Maybach pulled up to my small studio. Gabriel came inside without his armed escort, leaving his guns in the car, spending two hours on the maple floor learning the waltz, the tango, and the foxtrot.
He didn't step on my toes anymore. He moved with effortless grace, his towering frame guiding my curvy body across the floor with a fierce, protective rhythm that made my soul ache whenever the music stopped.
Our quiet world exploded on a rainy Tuesday evening.
A formal invitation printed on heavy gold-embossed parchment arrived at my studio door:
THE MORETTI FAMILY CENTENNIAL GALA
THE DRAKE HOTEL — CHICAGO
SPECIAL GUEST OF HONOR: MISS CLAIRE DONOVAN
At 7:00 PM on Saturday, a sleek black Maybach picked me up from my small apartment.
I wore a breathtaking, floor-length emerald green silk gown that draped gracefully over my curvy figure, highlighting my copper-red hair styled in soft, glossy curls around my shoulders. Around my neck rested a delicate platinum necklace holding a single, flawless emerald—a gift delivered to my door that morning with a note in Gabriel’s fluid handwriting:
Wear this tonight, my queen. Let them see who holds my heart. — G.
When I walked through the grand double doors of the Drake Hotel’s ballroom, three hundred elite guests—mafia captains, politicians, corporate bosses, and high-society women—went dead, breathlessly silent.
Standing near the primary stage, wearing an immaculate black tuxedo, looking sovereign, terrifying, and absolute, was Gabriel.
When his storm-gray eyes caught me walking down the center aisle, his sharp, severe posture instantly softened. He stepped away from his senior lieutenants, walking straight toward me with an unshakeable, undivided focus that made every eye in the room follow his path.
"You take my breath away, Claire," Gabriel whispered softly, taking my gloved hand into his broad palm, leaning down to press a sweet, reverent kiss against my knuckles.
"You look quite handsome yourself, Don Moretti," I smiled back, my cheeks flushing warm.
Before Gabriel could lead me toward the head table, a sharp, bitter voice cut through the quiet room.
Standing near the champagne tower was Victoria Russo—a thirty-four-year-old socialite and daughter of an allied family who had spent three years trying to force Gabriel into an arranged marriage.
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Victoria inspected my emerald gown, her eyes flashing with pure, spiteful disdain.
"Gabriel," Victoria sneered loudly enough for twenty nearby guests to hear. "Who is this woman? Did you hire a local dance instructor to be your charity date tonight?"
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