Chapter 4 - The Gala at the Plaza
The annual charity gala at the Plaza Hotel was the epicenter of New York high society—a glittering cesspool of corrupt politicians, untouchable real estate moguls, and syndicate capos playing dress-up in million-dollar tuxedos.
When Noah asked me to accompany him as his date, I knew it wasn't just a casual invitation. It was a statement. In a world where enemies constantly looked for weaknesses, bringing me out in public meant painting a massive target on my back. It meant declaring to every rival boss in the tristate area that I mattered to him.
And I had to look the part.
The dress arrived three days before the event in a velvet box—a custom-tailored, backless silk gown in deep, midnight emerald that hugged my curves as if it had been painted onto my skin. It was breathtaking, expensive, and utterly terrifying.
When Noah met me at the bottom of the stairs outside my apartment building, stepping out of the back of a stretched black Maybach, he looked like a prince from a dark fairy tale. He wore the midnight-blue three-piece suit I had personally tailored for him—the fabric fitting his broad shoulders and lean waist with absolute perfection.
When his eyes landed on me, the breath literally caught in his throat.
“Elena,” he whispered, stepping forward to take my hand as I descended the worn concrete steps. His thumb stroked the back of my knuckles. “You look... breathtaking.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, my cheeks warming under his intense gaze. “And thank you for the dress. Though I’m pretty sure it cost more than my father’s shop makes in a year.”
“Worth every penny,” Noah replied smoothly, placing my hand in the crook of his arm as he led me toward the car.
Inside the grand ballroom of the Plaza, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, champagne, and repressed hostility. Crystal chandeliers cast a dazzling light over hundreds of glittering guests. As Noah and I walked through the arched mahogany doors, the ambient chatter in the room noticeably dimmed.
Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through tall grass.
“Who is that?”
“That’s Noah Moretti... and he brought a date?”
“Is that the tailor’s daughter from Fourth Street?”
I kept my chin up, my posture straight, channeling every ounce of dignity I possessed. But inside, my stomach was in knots. I could feel the venomous glares of women in diamond tiaras and the calculating, predatory stares of powerful men who looked at me not as a person, but as Noah’s only discernible vulnerability.
Noah must have felt my tension because his hand shifted from my waist to my lower back, his warm palm pressing firmly against my spine, grounding me.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as we stopped to greet a group of aging city councilmen. “Let them look. Let them wonder. They can't touch you.”
As the night progressed, we danced beneath the massive crystal chandeliers. In his arms, surrounded by wolves in designer clothing, I felt entirely safe. He spun me gently, his hand gripping my waist, his green eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re enjoying this,” I teased softly, resting my hand on his broad shoulder.
“I’m enjoying the fact that every man in this room is glaring at me with pure jealousy,” Noah confessed with a faint, wicked smirk. “They’ve been trying to figure out my weakness for a decade. Now they’re staring at her, trying to figure out how to steal her away.”
“And what makes you think I’d let anyone steal me?” I challenged, raising an eyebrow.
Noah’s smirk faded, replaced by an expression of fierce, absolute devotion.
“Because you’re mine, Elena,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unyielding weight that sent a shiver straight to my soul. “Whether you’ve admitted it to yourself yet or not.”
Before I could answer, the music swelled, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall, silver-haired man approaching us with a dangerous, oily smile.
May you like
Victor Santoro.
The head of the rival Brooklyn syndicate. And the man whispering in the shadows behind the attack at the Tribeca studio.
