Chapter 13 - THE METROPOLITAN GALA
|
On the second Saturday of December, the Chicago Cultural Center hosted the annual Midwest Philanthropy Gala.
It was the premier social gathering of the year, attended by seven hundred guests: governors, federal judges, foreign dignitaries, and high-society dynasties.
In the past, the Bellini family had dominated this event, using their wealth to buy influence and social status.
Tonight was different.
The grand glass dome of the Cultural Center was illuminated in brilliant shades of sapphire and gold, casting shimmering reflections across the marble mosaics below.
A forty-piece symphony orchestra played classical waltzes from the elevated gallery.
At nine o’clock, the master of ceremonies stepped to the brass podium, tapping the microphone to call the crowded ballroom to attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host announced, his voice carrying clearly beneath the towering dome.
“Please welcome our keynote benefactors for the newly established Midwest Children’s Restorative Health Foundation.”
“Don Dominic Moretti and Donna Claire Moretti.”
The double mahogany doors swung wide open.
A collective gasp rippled through the seven hundred guests, followed by an immediate, stunned hush.
Dominic Moretti walked onto the grand balcony landing, wearing a custom black tuxedo with satin lapels and a crisp white silk shirt.
He looked magnificent, commanding, and untouchable.
Beside him walked Claire.
I was not wearing a housemaid’s uniform or an apron tonight.
I wore an off-the-shoulder midnight-blue velvet gown with a delicate train that swept the marble floor with regal grace.
Around my neck rested a breathtaking diamond-and-sapphire necklace—a family heirloom of the Moretti matriarchs that had been locked in the family vault for forty years.
My dark hair was swept up into an intricate, elegant chignon, secured with sapphire pins that caught the golden light like stars.
And walking between us, holding both of our hands, was Maisie.
Maisie wore an adorable ivory lace dress with a navy silk sash, her dark curls bouncing as she walked proudly down the sweeping marble staircase.
Whispers broke out among the older socialites and syndicate figures seated near the front tables.
Three months ago, this woman had been scrubbing marble floors in silence.
Tonight, she walked down the staircase as the undisputed queen of the city’s most powerful empire.
We reached the center floor, and thunderous, deafening applause erupted across the ballroom.
Federal judges raised their crystal champagne flutes in respect.
City commissioners bowed their heads with genuine deference.
Don Carmine Falcone, seated at the premier table, stood up slowly, leaning on his gold-topped cane, and raised his glass high into the air.
“To the House of Moretti!” Falcone’s raspy voice boomed across the room.
“To Donna Claire!” seven hundred voices roared in unison, lifting their glasses toward the glass dome.
Dominic looked down at me, a proud, breathtaking smile spreading across his handsome face.
He took my gloved hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing my knuckles with a reverence that silenced every remaining whisper in the room.
“I told you that you belonged here, Claire,” Dominic murmured against my skin.
I looked around the grand room, seeing respect, warmth, and genuine admiration in every eye.
“I don't belong to high society, Dominic,” I whispered, smiling up at him.
“I belong to you.”
Dominic’s dark eyes ignited with an intensity so fierce it took my breath away.
May you like
“You belong with me, Claire,” he agreed softly.
“Now and for the rest of our lives.”
