Chapter 8 - The Gala at the Plaza
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue was a cathedral of Gilded Age opulence: soaring vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers throwing diamond light across four hundred guests, and tables covered in white imported linen and thousands of white roses.
It was 8:00 PM on a crisp Saturday evening, exactly one year after the night at The Violet Tower.
The annual winter charity gala of the Moretti Foundation was the premier philanthropic event of the North American continent: international ambassadors, federal judges, Wall Street titans, and the cultural elite of New York gathered to celebrate the dedication of the Thomas & Margaret Bennett Medical Research Pavilion at NYU Langone Health—fully endowed with forty million dollars of recovered municipal funds.
Walking down the grand marble staircase of the ballroom was Ivy Bennett Moretti.
I wore a bespoke evening gown of deep emerald silk velvet that swept the floor with quiet majesty, an antique platinum-and-diamond necklace sparkling against my collarbone, and on my left ring finger, the five-carat yellow diamond caught the candlelight with an unshakeable, sovereign brilliance.
Beside me walked Luca.
He wore an immaculate, bespoke black-tie tailcoat from Savile Row, his dark hair brushed neat, his scarred cheekbone held proud in the crystal glare.
Standing at the base of the staircase, holding two crystal flutes of vintage Dom Pérignon, was Arthur Albright—the senior legal counsel who had overseen the dissolution of Vance, Sterling & Croft.
“Good evening, Mrs. Moretti,” Arthur smiled, handing the champagne flutes to us. “The federal receivership has concluded its final audit. The hospital pavilion is fully funded. Zero debt. Zero encumbrances.”
“A clean ledger, Arthur,” I smiled, clinking my flute against his.
“A clean ledger, my dear,” the old lawyer agreed softly.
The orchestra in the upper gallery shifted from the classical overture into the familiar, soaring, three-quarter-time opening chords of Johann Strauss’s Blue Danube.
Luca did not wait for the other guests to form the circle.
He handed his champagne flute back to Arthur, turned to me, and bowed—a low, magnificent, sovereign bow that commanded the attention of every senator, ambassador, and socialite in the four-story hall.
He held out his gloved right hand.
“Dance with me, Ivy,” he said.
His voice was a low, resonant baritone that bypassed the music and settled directly into my soul.
I smiled—a slow, radiant, and triumphant smile.
I placed my hand in his.
“Lead, Mr. Moretti,” I whispered.
Luca pulled me into the first beat.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
We moved across the marble floor of the Plaza with an effortless, breathtaking grace that stopped the entire gala in its tracks. The emerald velvet of my gown swirled against his black wool trousers like an ocean wave breaking against an iron pier. He spun me beneath his arm, dipped me low over the polished wood, and pulled me back upright into his chest without missing a single sixteenth-note of the tempo.
Nobody was laughing.
There were no whispers behind champagne flutes.
Four hundred people stood along the perimeter of the stone hall, watching with open, reverent awe as the most feared man in New York turned his wife across the floor with an absolute, indomitable devotion that made every diamond in the room look like dust.
“You haven't stepped on my shoes yet, Ivy,” Luca murmured against my ear, his lips brushing the necklace at my throat.
“I have never stepped on your shoes, Luca,” I laughed, resting my cheek against his lapel, feeling the steady, powerful, and sovereign rhythm of his heart beating against mine.
May you like
“And you never will, my love,” he whispered into the clean, incense-scented air.
“Because the floor belongs to you.”
