Chapter 4 - THE GALA OF WOLVES
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a glittering spectacle of old money, stolen wealth, and polished depravity. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls from the gilded ceiling, casting brilliant light over hundreds of guests dressed in black tie and couture. Men in bespoke tuxedos laughed over champagne, their conversations masking discussions of shipping lanes, weapons contracts, and territorial boundaries.
The heavy double doors of the ballroom opened.
The herald announced: "Don Dante Moretti and Miss Emily Foster."
A sudden, sharp hush fell across the vast room. The string quartet seemed to falter for half a measure before continuing. Dozens of heads turned in unison.
Emily walked beside Dante, her head held high, just as he had drilled into her.
She wore a midnight-blue velvet gown with an off-the-shoulder neckline that dipped daringly low, pooling around her heels with liquid elegance. Around her neck was a diamond necklace worth millions—a Moretti heirloom. Her auburn hair was swept up in an intricate, regal chignon, exposing the delicate line of her neck and shoulders.
Beside her, Dante was breathtaking. Dressed in a flawless black tuxedo, his posture imposing and lethal, he walked with the slow, terrifying confidence of a king entering a conquered city. His left hand rested firmly on the small of Emily's back, his palm burning through the heavy velvet, anchoring her.
"Breathe, *piccola*," Dante murmured near her ear, his lips curving into an arrogant half-smile for the crowd. "You are the most breathtaking creature in this room. They are not judging you; they are envying me."
Emily let out a slow, controlled exhale and let a soft, enigmatic smile grace her lips.
Whispers rippled through the sea of guests.
"Who is she?"
"Arthur Foster's daughter... the dead drunk from Brooklyn?"
"Moretti took her in? Since when does Moretti take a woman?"
As they moved toward the VIP mezzanine, the crowd parted before them like the Red Sea. Dante nodded minimally to allied capos, accepting their reverent bows without breaking stride.
Suddenly, two figures blocked their path.
The first was an older man with slicked-back gray hair, a heavy gold ring on his pinky, and the bloated, predatory face of a vulture. Emily recognized him immediately from the threats sent to her phone: Salvatore Gallo, the 'Ndrangheta enforcer who had terrorized her family.
Beside him stood a younger man with handsome, aristocratic features, pale blue eyes, and a cruel, sneering mouth. Lucian Russo.
Emily felt her chest tighten, but Dante’s hand on her lower back pressed gently, a silent command: *Hold your ground.*
"Dante," Lucian Russo said smoothly, raising his champagne flute. "We were beginning to think you'd remain in Sicily forever. The city was so peaceful without you."
"A cemetery is also peaceful, Lucian," Dante replied, his tone conversational and deadpan. "Until the graves are dug up."
Lucian’s smile tightened at the edges. His eyes slid over to Emily, raking down her gown with undisguised insolence. "And who is this exquisite flower? Don't tell me the great Ghost has finally developed a weakness for Brooklyn stray cats?"
Before Emily could flinch, Dante stepped half an inch forward, subtly placing his shoulder between Lucian and Emily. The atmosphere around them plummeted twenty degrees.
"Watch your tongue, Russo," Dante said, his voice dropping into a register that made the surrounding guests take an involuntary step backward. "You are speaking to my future wife. Another disrespectful syllable, and I will cut your tongue out and feed it to Gallo's dogs."
Salvatore Gallo cleared his throat nervously, his bluster evaporating under Dante’s lethal glare. "Don Moretti... there seems to be a misunderstanding. The girl’s father owed my family—"
"The debt was paid in full on Wednesday morning," Dante interrupted, not even looking at Gallo. "And as of tonight, Gallo, your operations in Brooklyn are revoked. Cassian has already seized your warehouses on the piers."
Gallo turned purple. "You can't do that! The Commission—"
"I *am* the Commission," Dante stated with chilling finality.
Lucian Russo’s pale eyes burned with suppressed rage. He stepped closer to Dante, lowering his voice so only the three of them could hear. "You think you've won, Dante? You brought a trophy to parade around, but you forgot one thing. Velvet Touch always keeps a copy of the key."
Emily’s heart seized. *Velvet Touch.*
Lucian’s hand reached inside his tuxedo jacket, but he wasn't pulling a business card.
Across the ballroom, near the service entrances, the lights suddenly flickered and went out.
Screams erupted in the darkness.
"Down!" Dante roared.
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In a fraction of a second, Dante’s arm wrapped around Emily’s waist, violently pulling her to the marble floor just as the deafening *crack* of automatic gunfire ripped through the ballroom.
***
