Chapter 7 - THE GALA OF VIPERS
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered under five tons of Bohemian crystal chandeliers. Hundreds of guests in black tie and couture silk sipped vintage champagne, while a twelve-piece string orchestra played soft, civilized melodies designed to mask the fact that eighty percent of the men in the room had blood on their hands.
When Alio Salvatore entered through the gilded arched doors, the string quartet did not stop, but the conversations did.
Alio walked with the slow, terrifying confidence of a conqueror, but it was not his presence that made the heads turn. It was the woman on his arm.
Jolene moved with natural grace, her head held high, the midnight-blue velvet hugging her silhouette, the Salvatore sapphire burning like a blue star against her throat. Her left hand rested lightly on Alio’s forearm, the lace of her sleeve concealing her scars, her posture completely devoid of the servant she had been two weeks prior.
At the center VIP table sat Don Valenti—the eighty-year-old chairman of the Commission, a man who had survived three mob wars through cunning and ruthless neutrality. Beside him sat Gianni Moretti, Carlo’s estranged first cousin, whose dark, oily eyes immediately locked onto Jolene with venomous astonishment.
“Alio,” Don Valenti greeted, raising a flute of Prosecco as Alio approached the table. “We were beginning to think the rumors were true. Word on the street was that the Salvatore house had suffered a terrible breach.”
“A minor infestation of vermin, Don Valenti,” Alio said, pulling out a chair with immaculate courtesy and waiting for Jolene to be seated before taking his place beside her. “The exterminator was thorough. The vermin has been permanently eradicated.”
Gianni Moretti slammed his champagne glass onto the linen tablecloth with enough force to spill pale foam across the crystal. “You have nerve, Salvatore. You butcher my cousin in his own home, and then you have the audacity to parade his runaway whore at the Commission’s table?”
The room went instantly, horrifyingly silent.
Two of Alio’s bodyguards took a half-step forward, but Alio raised a single finger, halting them. He didn't raise his voice. He reached over, picked up his heavy crystal tumbler of Scotch, took a slow sip, and set it down without a sound.
“Gianni,” Alio said softly, the words slicing through the room like a freshly honed blade. “Repeat what you just said. My hearing isn't what it used to be.”
Gianni’s face flushed red, but the sheer arrogance of his family’s dying pride blinded him to the trap. “I said she is Carlo’s runaway property! She stole thirty million in bearer bonds when she left Newark! Those funds belong to the Moretti family! By Commission law, she must be handed over to us for questioning!”
Jolene did not shrink back.
She leaned forward, resting her lace-covered forearms on the white linen. She looked Gianni dead in his bloodshot eyes, her voice ringing clear, calm, and utterly unafraid.
“The thirty million in bearer bonds was my father’s personal estate, Gianni,” Jolene said, her tone smooth and aristocratic. “Acquired through legal commercial freight operations before Carlo ever set foot in Newark. It was deposited into an escrow trust under the name of Beatrice Moretti. And three days ago, by legal decree witnessed by the Surrogate Court of New York, Alio Salvatore was appointed legal co-trustee of that fund.”
She reached up, slowly sliding back her lace cuff just enough to reveal the diamond-encrusted Salvatore crest resting over her healed scars.
“If you have a claim against my father’s money, Gianni,” she added, a razor-sharp smile playing on her lips, “you are welcome to serve your subpoena to Don Salvatore’s legal department.”
A murmur of genuine shock rippled through the assembled dons. Don Valenti let out a wheezing, delighted laugh that crinkled his leathery cheeks.
“Well spoken, young lady,” Valenti declared, raising his glass toward her. “It seems Carlo’s taste in women was far superior to his judgment in warfare. Gianni, sit down and shut your mouth before you embarrass your ancestors any further.”
Gianni’s jaw worked silently. He glared at Jolene, then at Alio, before abruptly standing up and storming out of the ballroom, his enforcers trailing behind him.
Under the table, Alio’s hand found Jolene’s knee. He gave it a firm, approving squeeze.
“You were born for this, Jolene,” he murmured, his eyes glittering with dark pride.
Before she could answer, Dante slipped through the crowd, leaning down behind Alio’s ear. His voice was frantic, barely a whisper:
May you like
“Boss. We lost contact with the estate. The security cameras on the nursery wing just went dark.”
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