Chapter 6 - The Winter Gala
The Grand Ballroom of the Providence Biltmore was a gilded cathedral of old-world arrogance.
Crystal chandeliers the size of compact cars hung from vaulted ceilings frescoed with Roman gods. Five hundred guests—the political, legal, and financial aristocracy of New England—mingled over flutes of vintage champagne and blinis topped with Osetra caviar.
At 8:30 p.m., the brass-band orchestra faltered mid-waltz.
The heavy mahogany doors at the top of the grand staircase swung open.
Garrison Thorne walked into the room.
He wore an impeccably tailored bespoke tuxedo of midnight blue that broadened his already massive shoulders. His posture was military, commanding, and absolute.
Beside him, gliding down the specially constructed velvet-lined ramp with effortless grace, was Scarlet Bennett.
A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom.
Scarlet was magnificent. Her dark hair was swept into an intricate, elegant crown pinned with black-diamond clips. She wore an emerald-silk evening gown custom-tailored by a Roman atelier Garrison had flown in three days prior—the fabric cascading over her lap like liquid jewel, completely concealing the carbon-fiber frame of her customized titanium wheelchair.
Around her neck burned the Thorne emerald, catching the chandelier light like an unblinking green eye.
She didn't look down. She didn't look meek. Her chin was held high, her hazel eyes sweeping the room with the cool, evaluating detachment of a queen reviewing her subjects.
“Is that… Callaway’s wife?” a state senator whispered behind his champagne glass.
“The one he dumped at the bus terminal?” a judge’s wife hissed. “Good God, look at that pendant. That’s the Thorne family crest.”
At the far side of the room, standing beside a group of shipping executives, stood Salvatore Moretti.
Salvatore was fifty-five, with slicked-back silver hair, cold reptilian eyes, and a tailor who couldn't quite conceal the heavy shoulder holster beneath his tuxedo. When his eyes locked onto Scarlet and Garrison, his glass tilted, spilling champagne across his pristine cuff.
Garrison wheeled Scarlet directly toward the central dais, the crowd parting before them like water before an icebreaker.
“Good evening, Salvatore,” Garrison’s baritone rumbled over the quieted room.
Moretti forced a stiff, yellow-toothed smile. “Garrison. I didn't think you attended social events anymore. Not since… well, not in three years.”
“I came to celebrate an acquisition,” Garrison said, resting his hand casually on the back of Scarlet’s wheelchair. His touch was warm, protective, and unmistakably territorial.
“An acquisition?” Moretti’s eyes darted nervously to Scarlet. “I wasn't aware there were shipping routes for sale.”
“Not shipping routes, Salvatore,” Scarlet spoke.
Her voice was clear, melodic, and perfectly pitched. It carried across the silent ballroom, causing three dozen reporters near the media riser to turn their microphones toward the dais.
“We’ve acquired the primary debt notes of Callaway Enterprises,” Scarlet said, offering Moretti a razor-sharp smile. “Including the maritime shipping contracts registered to your shell company in Panama. The ones operating out of Pier 17.”
Moretti’s face paled beneath his salon tan. “You don't know what you’re talking about, little girl.”
“She knows every digit, Salvatore,” Garrison stepped forward, his frame blocking out the chandelier light, casting Moretti into shadow. “Because her father was the lead forensic accountant for the Port Authority before you had him blacklisted twenty years ago. The talent runs in the blood.”
Garrison leaned in close, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying whisper that only Moretti could hear.
“Leo drew the kneeling angel yesterday, Salvatore.”
Moretti stopped breathing. The blood drained from his face until he looked like a corpse in a dinner jacket.
“He drew the holding pen beneath the old chapel in Tiverton,” Garrison murmured, his dark eyes burning with lethal certainty. “My men are there right now. Along with two teams from the FBI’s Human Trafficking Division. You have approximately six minutes before the federal marshals enter this ballroom.”
Moretti looked wildly around the room.
At every exit of the grand ballroom, two of Garrison’s men stood in dark suits, their coats unbuttoned, their hands resting flat against their belts.
There was no way out.
The double doors burst open.
Twelve federal agents in tactical windbreakers, accompanied by the United States Attorney for the District of Rhode Island, marched into the ballroom, their boots thudding rhythmically against the parquet floor.
“Salvatore Moretti!” the lead agent announced, holding up an arrest warrant. “You are under arrest for conspiracy, human trafficking, and first-degree racketeering!”
Screams erupted from the socialites. Reporters surged forward, flashbulbs exploding in a blinding frenzy of white light. Moretti was thrown against a banquet table, ice sculptures shattering as steel cuffs were slapped around his wrists.
Through the chaos, Garrison looked down at Scarlet.
He extended his hand.
Scarlet placed her fingers in his, feeling the raw, unbreakable strength of the man who had torn down an entire underworld to avenge his son—and to honor her.
“May I have this dance, Miss Bennett?” he asked, the barest ghost of a smile touching his lips.
“I can’t dance, Garrison,” she whispered, her eyes shining.
May you like
Garrison didn't answer with words.
He leaned down, scooped her into his arms, lifting her out of the chair and pressing her close against his chest. In the center of the chaotic, flashing ballroom, while federal agents dragged a mafia boss into the night, Garrison Thorne held Scarlet Bennett against his heart, spinning her slowly across the floor while the orchestra, stunned and obedient, began to play.
