Chapter 6 - The Founder's Gala
The Grand Ballroom of the Palmer House Hotel in downtown Chicago was a dazzling sea of gold chandeliers, velvet drapes, and high-society opulence. The annual Founder's Gala was where Chicago’s political royalty, corporate tycoons, and syndicate bosses gathered once a year under a fragile truce.
I stood near the grand marble staircase wearing an off-the-shoulder emerald green silk gown that Dominic had delivered to my room at the safehouse that morning. The heavy diamond necklace resting against my collarbone was a Russo family heirloom—a explicit declaration to every person in the room of who I belonged to.
Dominic stood beside me, immaculate in a black velvet tuxedo. His broad shoulders cut a commanding silhouette, his dark eyes sweeping the room like a hawk searching for prey.
"Nervous?" he asked softly, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and handing one to me.
"A little," I admitted, taking a small sip. "Half the men in this room look like they want to murder you."
"They do," Dominic said with a dark, confident smile. "But tonight, they watch me destroy the Moretti family once and for all."
Across the room, standing beneath the main chandelier, was Don Marco Moretti—an elderly, sharp-eyed man surrounded by six heavy bodyguards. Sitting beside him at a private table was my mother’s old boyfriend, Victor—the man who had ruined my mother's life and made my childhood a living hell.
My grip tightened around the stem of my champagne glass.
Dominic noticed my gaze. He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a warm wave of electricity through my body. "Is that him?"
"Yes," I whispered. "Victor. He’s the one who took everything from my mother."
"Tonight, Clara," Dominic promised, his hand coming to rest possessively over my lower back, "he pays for every single tears she shed, and every fear you ever carried."
At 9:00 PM, Dominic stepped toward the main stage, raising his glass. The room fell into an expectant, suffocating silence.
"Friends, partners, honorable guests," Dominic began, his deep baritone carrying effortlessly across the grand hall. "Tonight, we gather to celebrate the prosperity of our city. But true prosperity cannot exist where there is rot."
Don Marco Moretti narrowed his eyes, his hand moving subtly toward his coat.
"Three days ago," Dominic continued smoothly, "an attempt was made on my family's life. The traitor who facilitated that attack—Mateo—is no longer with us. But the men who paid him sit in this very room."
With a signal from Dominic, the massive digital screens above the ballroom stage lit up.
The contents of the encrypted hard drive—bank transactions, wiretaps, and direct audio recordings between Don Marco Moretti and Victor—broadcasted across the hall for every high-society guest and syndicate boss to see.
Shouts of fury erupted across the ballroom. Don Marco stood up, his face turning purple with rage. "This is a lie! A frame-up!"
"It's over, Marco," Dominic said coldly, signaling to the Federal agents and rival capos who stepped through the ballroom doors, surrounding Moretti's table. "You bought my general, but you forgot that my family is protected by someone far smarter than you."
Dominic turned toward the staircase, extending his hand outward, pointing directly at me.
May you like
Every camera, every elite eyes, every powerful boss in Chicago turned to look at the twenty-three-year-old pharmacy clerk standing in emerald silk at the top of the stairs.
"To Clara Vance," Dominic announced, raising his glass high, his dark eyes shining with pure, unyielding pride. "The future Queen of the Russo family."
