Chapter 5 - The Gala of the DamnedTwo weeks later, the social calendar of Manhattan offered up another glittering sacrifice: the annual Winter Charity Ball at the Plaza Hotel.
It was the exact same venue where Patricia and Celeste had planned to announce Celeste’s engagement to a minor European aristocrat—an engagement meant to cement their family’s financial survival now that Giovanni had frozen all their assets.
The ballroom was blindingly bright, filled with crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, and hundreds of wealthy socialites whispering behind crystal flutes.
And then, the massive double doors swung open.
All conversation died instantly.
I walked into the ballroom on Giovanni Kampone’s arm.
I wasn't wearing a borrowed gray dress. I wore a backless, midnight-blue velvet gown custom-designed by a Parisian atelier, its fabric catching the light like starlight on dark water. Around my neck hung a sapphire pendant that belonged to my mother—an heirloom Patricia had stolen from our family vault and tried to sell at a private auction three days before Giovanni’s legal team seized the inventory.
Every head turned. Every eye locked onto us.
Across the room, standing near the dessert bar in a desperately reused red silk dress that looked hollow and out of season, stood Celeste. Beside her, Patricia looked ten years older, her makeup thick and chalky, desperately trying to maintain a facade of icy dignity while the entire room whispered behind their hands.
Giovanni guided me smoothly toward the center of the floor, his hand resting securely at my waist.
“They look like ghosts who just realized they’re already dead,” Giovanni murmured near my ear, his breath warm against my neck.
“Don’t be cruel,” I whispered back, though a triumphant smile played across my lips. “It’s unbecoming of a billionaire.”
“I’m only ever cruel to my enemies, Willow,” he replied, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the surrounding crowd fade into complete insignificance. “To you, I’m entirely at your mercy.”
Before I could answer, a frantic, high-pitched voice cut through the music.
“This is a mistake! You can’t arrest us! We have rights!”
We turned to see two federal marshals in dark suits escorted by Dante Russo, marching directly toward Patricia and Celeste near the grand staircase. The room erupted into absolute pandemonium. Flashbulbs exploded like lightning storms as reporters rushed forward, cameras thrusting into the faces of my stepmother and stepsister.
Patricia shrieked, throwing her hands over her face as the flashbulbs blinded her, while Celeste burst into loud, hysterical tears, her mascara running down her cheeks in black streaks.
“Willow!” Celeste screamed, her voice cracking with pure panic as she spotted me standing beside Giovanni in the center of the room. “Willow, please! Tell them! Tell them this is a sick joke! We’re your family!”
I didn't flinch. I didn't look away. I simply turned my head slightly, watching them with the cold, absolute clarity of someone who had finally stepped out of the shadow of a long, dark nightmare.
“My family died the day my father’s car went off that bridge,” I said softly, loud enough for the nearest reporters to catch every syllable. “You’re just tenants.”
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Giovanni pulled me closer against his chest, shielding me from the flashing lights and the chaotic shouting of the press.
“Come on,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. “Let’s get out of here.”
