Chapter 4 - The Gala of Vipers
The annual Moretti Foundation Charity Gala was held in the grand ballroom of the estate, an opulent expanse of gilded mirrors, crystal chandeliers, and black-tie elegance.
Two hundred of Chicago’s most powerful figures had gathered: judges, senators, corporate titans, and men whose wealth was whispered about in dark alleys rather than published in Forbes.
My hand was wrapped in a neat, flesh-colored bandage, concealed beneath the long lace sleeves of a modest, midnight-blue dress that Mrs. Higgins had delivered to my new room that afternoon on Luca’s direct orders.
I wasn't supposed to be an attendee. My duty was simple: stay near the VIP mezzanine with Mateo until the opening speeches concluded, after which I would take him upstairs to bed.
Mateo sat on a plush velvet sofa beside me, swinging his patent-leather shoes, happily coloring in a picture book. His scraped knee was hidden under crisp dress trousers.
“Look, Emma! A red dragon!” he chirped, holding up the page.
“It’s beautiful, Mateo,” I whispered, smiling down at him. For the first time in months, I felt a strange sense of peace. My new room was warm, safe, and right next to his. Luca had kept his word.
“Enjoying your promotion, little mouse?”
The voice was cold, sharp as shattered glass.
I stiffened. I looked up to see Isabella standing at the entrance of the mezzanine.
She looked stunning—a predator cloaked in emerald silk, diamonds dripping from her neck and ears. But her eyes were wild, bloodshot beneath her designer makeup, filled with a rancid, desperate fury.
She wasn't supposed to be here. Luca had banned her from the estate grounds, but clearly, her father’s political clout had granted her entry through the main gates.
“Miss Vance,” I said quietly, keeping my hands folded in my lap. “You shouldn't be up here. Mr. Moretti asked that Mateo remain undisturbed.”
“Mr. Moretti doesn't know what’s good for him,” she hissed, stepping closer. The smell of expensive champagne clung heavily to her breath. She glared down at Mateo, who immediately shrank back into the sofa, clutching my arm.
“You think you won, don't you?” Isabella sneered, leaning in close so the security guards below couldn’t see her composure slipping. “You think because you took a little scratch for his brat, he’s going to look at you like an equal? You are a stray dog he picked up off the street. A disposable peasant.”
“I never claimed to be anything else,” I said steadily, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. “Please leave, Miss Vance. You’re scaring Mateo.”
“I’ll leave when I’m ready,” she snapped.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated in her small gold clutch. She glanced at the screen, and a sudden, sinister smile spread across her red lips. The panic that had been simmering beneath her surface instantly vanished, replaced by an ugly triumph.
She stepped back, turning toward the balcony corridor, but not before whispering into the receiver: *“The package is in place. Sector four. Make sure Moretti’s men are distracted during the toast.”*
My blood turned to ice.
Sector four? Distracted during the toast?
That wasn’t the talk of a spurned socialite complaining about an engagement. That was logistics. That was sabotage.
“Emma?” Mateo whimpered, pulling on my lace sleeve. “Who was she talking to?”
“Stay right here, sweetheart,” I whispered, my heart slamming into my throat.
Across the mezzanine railing, I looked down into the crowded ballroom below. Luca stood at the center of the room, surrounded by men in dark tuxedos. He was holding a glass of champagne, preparing to step onto the dais for the annual address.
Beside the raised stage, three men in catering uniforms were moving a large, velvet-draped ice sculpture toward the service entrance—directly beneath the main electrical junction of the ballroom.
One of the men reached into his jacket.
He didn't pull out a towel or a serving tray.
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Under the glare of the chandelier, I caught the unmistakable matte-black gleam of a suppressed firearm.
***
