Chapter 4 - The Syndicate’s Dinner
The transition of power at Hart Enterprises sent shockwaves through Chicago’s financial district that lasted three days. By Wednesday evening, the corporate restructuring was complete, and the city’s underworld elite had sent a very clear message: if Nikolai Moretti was bringing his new fiancée into the fold, she had to be tested.
That test came in the form of an invitation to the annual Syndicate Gala held at the Onyx Club, a subterranean private fortress hidden beneath the city’s historic opera house.
The air inside the club was heavy with cigar smoke, old bourbon, and the palpable tension of men who controlled billions of dollars through fear and leverage. Every eye in the room turned toward the arched double doors as Nikolai and I entered.
I wore a floor-length gown of midnight-blue velvet, cut with clean, sharp lines that commanded respect rather than seeking approval. My hair was pulled back into a sleek, severe chignon, and the canary-yellow diamond on my finger caught the dim amber light of the chandeliers like a warning flare.
At the center table sat Don Salvatore Moretti—Nikolai’s uncle and the patriarch of the syndicate. He was an older man with silver hair, sharp hawk-like eyes, and a reputation for crushing rivals without raising his voice.
Julian and Serena were seated near the edge of the room, relegated to the outer circle of influence like disgraced courtiers watching the coronation from afar. Serena looked terrified in her oversized white dress, while Julian glared at me with pure, unadulterated venom.
Nikolai led me straight to the head table, pulling out my chair with formal, old-world precision before taking his seat beside me.
Don Salvatore leaned back, steepling his fingers together as he surveyed me over the rim of his crystal glass.
“Evelyn Hart,” the old man rumbled, his voice gravelly and resonant. “Or should I say, Evelyn Moretti. Word around the river is that you dismantled your father’s board in forty-eight hours and took over the city’s largest shipping logistics firm before you even finished your morning coffee.”
“Power isn't given, Don Salvatore,” I replied evenly, meeting his intense gaze without flinching. “It’s taken by those who refuse to let others write their story.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the older syndicate capos sitting around the table.
Don Salvatore let out a low, gravelly chuckle. “Your brother made a fool of himself on Friday, Nikolai. He thought he was trading up for a trophy. Looks like he handed us the crown jewel instead.”
“Julian has always lacked vision,” Nikolai said smoothly, pouring a glass of red wine for me. “He sees the surface. Evelyn sees the foundation.”
Across the room, Julian couldn't take it anymore. Driven by bruised ego and mounting desperation, he stood up from his table, pushing his chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. He marched across the room toward our table, his face flushed, ignoring the warning hands of the guards stationed by the pillars.
“Uncle Salvatore!” Julian shouted, stopping just feet from our table. “You can't let this happen! She’s an outsider! She’s using Nikolai to take over the family assets—she’s a corporate shark who doesn't care about our traditions or our code!”
The entire room went dead silent. You could hear the ice melting in the crystal glasses.
Don Salvatore didn't blink. He slowly set his glass down on the white tablecloth.
“Julian,” the old man said softly. “You stood in a ballroom on Friday night and humiliated your betrothed in front of five hundred people because you thought you were clever. Then you allowed a corporate empire built by her family to slip through your fingers because you didn't even know who held the voting shares.”
Julian’s breath hitched. “That’s... that’s because she manipulated—!”
“Quiet,” Nikolai commanded, standing up slowly. He wasn't loud, but the sheer, freezing authority in his voice made Julian physically recoil.
Nikolai stepped around the table, closing the distance between them until he towered over his younger brother.
“You brought her here tonight, Julian?” Nikolai asked softly, nodding toward Serena, who was shrinking into her seat across the room. “You thought you could flaunt your prize in front of the council? You are a guest in this room only because of my mercy. Speak out of turn again, and you won't just lose your seat at the table—you’ll lose your standing in this city entirely.”
Julian swallowed hard, the last remnants of his bravado shattering completely. He turned on his heel and fled the room, the heavy double doors swinging shut behind him.
May you like
Don Salvatore picked up his wine glass, offering a faint, approving smile toward me.
“Welcome to the family, Evelyn,” the old man said. “I think you’ll find we have much higher standards than your father did.”
