Chapter 7 - The True QueenSix months later.
The grand ballroom of the newly restored Ashford estate gleamed under the light of fresh crystal chandeliers. There were no fake smiles, no hidden poisons, and no deceitful socialites whispering behind gloved hands.
The guests who filled the room tonight were the true powers of New York—capos, judges, industrialists, and even my father, Vincent Marchetti, who stood in the corner with a glass of scotch, watching us with a grudging, respectful nod.
I stood at the top of the grand staircase, wearing a stunning gown of deep crimson silk that hugged my curves and trailed behind me like spilled wine. Around my neck hung a diamond necklace, and on my ring finger, the heavy ruby ring caught the light with every movement.
Beside me stood Daniel, impeccably tailored in a black tuxedo, looking every inch the king of New York.
As the string quartet played softly below, Daniel turned to me, offering his arm with a slow, possessive smile.
"Ready, my queen?" he murmured.
I placed my hand in his, feeling the solid, unbreakable strength of his grip.
May you like
"Always," I replied.
We descended the staircase together, stepping into a future built not on secrets and blood, but on a love forged in the fires of a war we had won side by side.
