Chapter 6 - The Gala of Knives
The grand ballroom of the Moretti downtown estate was a shimmering sea of black tuxedos, glittering diamond necklaces, and flowing silk gowns. Over three hundred of New York’s most powerful figures—senators, real estate moguls, judges, and corporate titans—mingled beneath soaring chandeliers, sipping vintage champagne to the strains of a live chamber orchestra.
I felt like an imposter.
Mrs. Moretti had refused to let me wear a simple uniform. Instead, she had summoned a private tailor to the estate yesterday afternoon. I was wearing an understated, floor-length gown of midnight-blue velvet that draped elegantly over my frame, its long sleeves perfectly concealing the slim, low-profile medical brace Dr. Keller had fitted onto my wrist that morning. My auburn hair was pinned up in soft curls, revealing the delicate diamond teardrop earrings Mrs. Moretti had insisted I borrow.
“Stop fidgeting, sweetheart,” Mrs. Moretti murmured from her wheelchair beside me. She looked regal in an emerald velvet dress, her family’s antique emerald necklace resting against her collarbone. “You look stunning. Like you were born to walk these halls.”
“I feel like everyone is staring at me, Mrs. Moretti,” I whispered back, keeping my hands neatly folded in front of me.
“They aren't staring at you because you don't belong,” the matriarch chuckled softly. “They’re staring because you’re the only woman in this room who hasn't had half her face paralyzed by botox, and my son hasn't taken his eyes off you since we stepped out of the limousine.”
My cheeks warmed instantly. I dared a glance across the ballroom.
Luca stood in the center of a circle of banking executives. He looked breathtaking in a bespoke black tuxedo with satin lapels, exuding an aura of absolute dominance. Yet, even as a billionaire developer spoke animatedly in his ear, Luca’s dark gaze was fixed squarely across the ballroom—on me. When our eyes met, he didn't look away. He gave a subtle, deliberate nod, raising his champagne glass a fraction of an inch in my direction.
My heart did an erratic flutter.
Suddenly, the ambient chatter near the grand entrance dimmed.
Senator Vance had arrived.
The silver-haired, patrician politician entered with the charisma of an apex predator, his political smile flashing under the photographers’ flashes. On his arm was Isabella.
She was dressed to kill. Her gown was a dramatic, crimson-red backless design, dripping in diamonds. She looked radiant, confident, and victorious. If she was bothered by her temporary exile to the carriage house, she showed none of it. She walked into the ballroom like an empress returning to claim her throne.
Behind them walked a man I hadn't seen before—a tall, sleek man with silver-streaked hair, carrying a slim leather folder under his arm.
“Dr. Julian Aris,” Mrs. Moretti whispered beside me, her voice turning icy. “The corrupt neurologist Isabella’s father keeps on his political payroll.”
My pulse spiked. The pieces were moving on the board.
Within minutes, Senator Vance, Isabella, and Dr. Aris made their way directly toward where Mrs. Moretti and I were stationed near the raised dais. Luca broke away from his circle of executives immediately, cutting through the crowd like an icebreaker through frozen water, arriving at our side just as the Vance party reached us.
“Eleanor,” Senator Vance boomed, offering Mrs. Moretti a patronizing bow. “You look remarkably well for an eighty-two-year-old dealing with such heavy medical burdens.”
Mrs. Moretti didn't offer her hand. “I was doing exceptionally well, Arthur, until your perfume wafted across my ballroom.”
The Senator’s smile tightened, but he chuckled smoothly for the surrounding guests who were watching the exchange with rapt curiosity.
“Always full of wit,” the Senator said, turning his gaze toward Luca. “Luca, my boy. A word in private, perhaps? We have some urgent matters regarding Eleanor’s medical oversight to discuss before the toast.”
“Anything you have to say about my mother can be said right here, Senator,” Luca replied, his voice cold, steady, and loud enough to draw the attention of several nearby reporters and board members.
Isabella stepped forward, her voice rich with rehearsed sorrow. “Luca, please. We didn't want to cause a scene, but we have no choice. The toxicological reports came back from the state lab today.”
A murmur rippled through the gathering crowd.
“What toxicological reports?” Luca asked, his brow furrowing slightly.
Isabella turned a sorrowful, condemning look directly at me.
“The ones investigating your mother’s sudden cognitive episodes,” Isabella announced, her voice carrying across the ballroom. “Dr. Aris reviewed the medical charts from the estate. It appears that Eleanor has been receiving dangerous, off-label doses of high-potency sedatives for the past three months. Doses administered exclusively by her personal aide.”
She pointed a manicured, crimson-tipped finger straight at my chest.
“Emma Hayes has been systematically intoxicating your mother, Luca. Keeping her confused, compliant, and isolated from her family.”
Gasps echoed around the grand room. Guests began to whisper frantically behind their champagne flutes. Cameras began to shift toward us.
My chest tightened until I couldn't draw breath. The sheer audacity of the lie was breathtaking. They weren't just trying to remove me—they were setting me up to take the fall for the very crime they had planned.
“That is an absolute lie!” I cried out, stepping forward, my hands trembling. “I have never administered anything that wasn't personally signed and sealed by Dr. Keller!”
“Of course you would deny it,” Dr. Aris spoke up, stepping forward with his leather folder. “I have the blood analysis right here, signed by an independent state laboratory. Mrs. Moretti’s blood work shows trace amounts of Clonazepam—a medication she was never prescribed. Emma Hayes had sole access to the medication safe.”
“She’s an angel!” Mrs. Moretti shouted, trying to push herself up from her wheelchair, her voice shaking with rage. “She never gave me anything dangerous! Isabella is the one who wanted me sick!”
“Look at her,” Isabella said softly to the crowd, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye. “She’s confused. The drugs have altered her cognitive baseline. Arthur, we have the emergency temporary conservatorship petition ready. For Eleanor’s own protection, she must be remanded to Dr. Aris’s specialized facility tonight.”
Two private security guards in dark suits—men wearing Vance family pins, not Moretti insignias—stepped through the crowd, moving toward Mrs. Moretti’s wheelchair.
“Step back,” I said, throwing myself between the guards and Mrs. Moretti, my eyes blazing despite the terror clawing at my throat. “Don't you dare touch her!”
One of the Vance guards reached out to grab my shoulder.
Before his fingers could touch my velvet gown, a hand like an iron vise clamped around the guard’s wrist.
Luca.
With a swift, brutal jerk, Luca twisted the guard’s arm backward, forcing the two-hundred-pound man down to his knees with a sharp gasp of agony.
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“Touch her,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it sent a shockwave of terror through the entire ballroom, “and you will leave this room in a body bag.”
***
