Chapter 4 - The Gala of Wolves
The Grand Ballroom of the Boston Harbor Hotel smelled of champagne, white truffles, and treason.
It was the annual St. Jude Children’s Charity Gala—an event where Boston’s high-society blue bloods, corrupt politicians, and high-ranking syndicate capos mingled beneath crystal chandeliers, pretending they did not all share the same dirty money.
Normally, Sophie would have been cleaning the dishes from the hors d'oeuvres.
Tonight, she was wearing a custom-tailored emerald green velvet gown that hugged her rounded silhouette with unapologetic defiance. An antique diamond choker encircled her neck—a family heirloom Donna Clara had handed her with hands that shook with suppressed rage. Her auburn hair had been swept up into an intricate braided crown, and on her finger, the Duca family crest ring caught the light like an unsheathed blade.
Matteo stood beside her in a classic black tuxedo, his hand never leaving the small of her back. Every step they took across the polished hardwood floor caused a ripple of silenced conversations.
Across the room, standing beneath an archway of white hydrangeas, was Kyle Mercer.
He looked different from the man who had grabbed her in the cafe twelve hours ago. He was clean, groomed, wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo, holding a glass of Scotch. But his eyes were frantic, darting around the room, full of the reckless, cornered desperation of a spoiled child who had made a deal with a devil he couldn't control.
Beside him stood Salvatore Duca—Matteo’s uncle. A heavy-set man with silver hair slicked back, wearing a pinstriped suit that strained against his gut, his fingers heavy with gold sovereign rings.
“Smile, Sophie,” Matteo murmured into her ear, his lips brushing the edge of her hair. “The photographers from the *Globe* are at the pillar on your left. Let them see how easily you carry the weight of this room.”
“Kyle is looking at me like he wants to tear my throat out,” Sophie whispered behind a rigid, polite smile.
“He is looking at you like a man who knows he has signed his own death warrant,” Matteo replied calmly. “Stay close to me. Leo has four men within spitting distance.”
Before they could reach the private alcove reserved for the Duca family, Salvatore’s booming voice cut through the soft string quartet music.
“Matteo! Nephew!”
The crowd parted instantly. The socialites drifted back toward the walls like fish sensing a shark entering the shallows.
Salvatore strode forward, Kyle trailing half a step behind him like an obedient hound. Salvatore’s face was red from liquor, his grin wide, showing gold fillings.
“You honor us with your presence,” Salvatore said, opening his arms as if to embrace Matteo, though he kept a careful three-foot distance. “And you brought the little mother. We were worried the… excitement… at Bellamy’s might have caused complications.”
“My wife is in perfect health, Salvatore,” Matteo said, his voice dropping into that chilling, flat tone. “Which is more than I can say for your recent investments in the Chelsea freight yards.”
Salvatore’s grin thinned. “Business is business, nephew. But family… family is sacred. Isn't that right, Kyle?”
Kyle stepped forward. His eyes flicked from Matteo’s face down to Sophie’s. There was a raw, venomous hatred in his gaze, but beneath it, Sophie saw a flash of genuine, sickening terror.
“Sophie,” Kyle said, his voice loud enough to carry across the nearest dozen tables. “You’re looking remarkably well for a woman who claimed she couldn't afford rent two weeks ago.”
“Mr. Mercer,” Sophie said, her voice clear, ringing out with a dignity that surprised even herself. “I suggest you speak to my husband if you have business with my family. Though from what I understand, your father usually handles the checks you can’t cash.”
A soft, collective intake of breath rippled through the surrounding blue bloods. Kyle’s jaw snapped shut, his cheeks burning crimson.
Salvatore chuckled, a wet, ugly sound. “A spirited girl! Leonardo always did like women with sharp teeth. But you see, Matteo, there is a small matter of the courts. Young Kyle here has filed paperwork. Sworn statements. He claims that on October twenty-seventh, he was in her bed. He claims that the child she’s carrying is Mercer blood. And under the laws of the Commonwealth—not to mention the laws of the Commission—a dispute of succession must be resolved before the baby can be recognized as the Duca heir.”
Matteo didn't move. He didn't even shift his drink to his left hand.
“There is no dispute,” Matteo said.
“There is,” Kyle spoke up, his voice cracking slightly before he found his footing, emboldened by Salvatore’s bulk beside him. “I have hotel receipts from the night she conceived! I have messages from her phone! You can’t intimidate the entire state, Matteo. You can’t steal my child to cover up the fact that your own balls were blown off in an alley!”
The entire ballroom went dead silent.
Even the string quartet stopped playing, the bow screeching across a cello string before freezing in place.
Sophie’s heart stopped. She looked at Donna Clara, who was standing twenty feet away, her glass of champagne frozen halfway to her lips, her face pale as parchment.
Kyle had said the forbidden word. He had brought the secret into the light of the high-society sun.
Matteo slowly turned his full attention to Kyle.
He didn't draw a gun. He didn't signal his guards. He simply set his champagne flute down on the tray of a terrified passing waiter.
“You have five seconds,” Matteo said quietly, “to tell this room who paid you to say those words.”
Kyle sneered, though sweat was beading heavily at his hairline. “Nobody paid me! It’s the truth! You’re shooting blanks, Duca! You’re taking my leftovers and pretending you’re a king!”
Matteo moved.
He didn't strike Kyle. He reached out, grabbed Kyle by the silk lapels of his tuxedo, and slammed him backward onto the nearest banquet table.
Silverware clattered, crystal goblets shattered in a shower of sparkling shards and red wine, and screams erupted from the surrounding women. Kyle gasped as Matteo leaned over him, his forearm pressing down across Kyle’s windpipe with the force of an iron bar.
Salvatore stepped forward, shouting, “Matteo! Stop! This is a public—”
*CLICK.*
Leo was suddenly there, the muzzle of a suppressed Glock pressed directly against the soft skin beneath Salvatore’s jaw.
“Take one more step, Don Salvatore,” Leo whispered with absolute calm, “and I will paint this tablecloth with your brains.”
Nobody moved. The security guards hired by the hotel stood with their hands out, completely paralyzed.
Matteo leaned down until his mouth was an inch from Kyle’s bleeding ear, cut by a broken champagne glass.
“You think you are clever, Kyle,” Matteo whispered, loud enough for Sophie and Salvatore to hear, but soft enough to sound like a lover’s secret. “You think because Salvatore promised you forty million dollars from my estate after he stages his coup, you are going to walk out of this city alive?”
Kyle’s eyes bulged, his hands clawing at Matteo’s forearm, his face turning purple as his oxygen was cut off.
“I know about the offshore accounts in Grand Cayman, Kyle,” Matteo continued smoothly. “I know Salvatore transferred two million dollars to your father’s shell company three days ago. And I know you haven’t touched Sophie since August, because you were too busy getting your nose rebuilt after you ran into my men at the casino.”
Matteo released the pressure on Kyle’s throat just enough for the younger man to draw a ragged, wheezing breath.
“Now,” Matteo said, his voice cold enough to freeze blood. “Tell my wife you are sorry for speaking her name in this room. Or I will sever your vocal cords right here on this linen, and let your father pay for the funeral.”
Kyle began to choke, tears streaming down his face, his dignity shattered in front of every judge, senator, and socialite he had spent his entire life trying to impress.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” Kyle wheezed, his eyes rolling toward Sophie in sheer terror. “Sophie… I’m sorry… please…”
Matteo let go.
Kyle collapsed onto the table among the broken glass, gasping for air, clutching his bruised throat.
Matteo straightened his cuffs, not a single hair out of place. He turned to face the room of two hundred frozen, terrified spectators.
“The gala has concluded,” Matteo announced, his voice carrying with effortless authority. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
May you like
He walked back to Sophie, took her arm, and led her toward the grand exit, stepping past his pale, trembling uncle without a single glance backward.
***
