Chapter 4 - Blood and Orchids
The tension at the Crystal Plaza Gala was thick enough to choke on. The ballroom was a sea of tailored tuxedos and glittering diamonds, but beneath the surface, it was a war zone. Anna stood by the velvet ropes near the cloakroom, clutching her touch-up kit like a shield.
The Moretti family occupied the center table, radiating untouchable power. Don Carlo laughed warmly, sipping his wine, completely unbothered by the fact that he had orchestrated the crippling of his greatest rivals less than twenty-four hours ago. Matteo sat beside him, his arm draped possessively over Sofia’s chair.
Across the room, the Romano family table sat in venomous silence. Don Vincenzo Romano, a man with a face scarred by decades of street violence, glared at the Morettis. His warehouses were seized, his lieutenants were in federal custody, and he was desperately hunting for a traitor in his ranks.
Anna watched Sofia. The agent was playing her part flawlessly. She smiled at Matteo’s jokes, rested her hand on his thigh, and looked entirely like a woman in love. But Anna, who had memorized every micro-expression on Sofia’s face, could see the frantic, desperate calculations in her eyes.
Suddenly, the grand entrance doors swung open, and a man in a rumpled suit stumbled in. It was Silvio, one of the Romano enforcers. He was bleeding from a shallow graze on his forehead, his eyes wild.
“Vincenzo!” Silvio shouted across the silent room. “The docks! The feds just hit the Brooklyn docks!”
Chaos erupted. Chairs scraped violently against the marble floor. Women gasped, and security personnel rushed forward. Don Romano stood up, his face purple with rage. He looked directly at Don Carlo.
“You,” Romano spat, his voice carrying over the din. “You did this. You planted a rat.”
Carlo didn’t flinch. He didn’t even stand. He simply took another sip of his wine. “Vincenzo, please. We are at a charity event. If your house is not in order, do not blame your neighbors for the smell.”
Romano signaled to his men. Hands reached inside suit jackets. Instantly, the Moretti guards drew their weapons. Dozens of guns were drawn in a room filled with the city’s elite. The string quartet stopped playing, leaving a terrifying, ringing silence.
“Get down,” Matteo hissed, shoving Sofia under the heavy oak table.
Anna froze by the cloakroom, her heart stopping. She was completely exposed.
A shot rang out—a deafening crack that shattered a crystal chandelier above the dance floor. Glass rained down like deadly hail. Screams filled the air. Anna dropped to her knees, scrambling behind the thick oak counter of the cloakroom, her hands clamped over her ears.
More shots followed, a brief but brutal exchange of fire. Wood splintered. Bodies hit the floor. And then, the piercing shriek of police sirens echoed from the street outside. The gala had a heavy police presence, and they were swarming the building.
“Cease fire!” Don Carlo bellowed, a command that cut through the panic with absolute authority.
The shooting stopped. The Romanos, realizing they were outgunned and about to be arrested en masse, began retreating toward the service exits, dragging their wounded.
Anna stayed huddled in the dark, gasping for air. A shadow fell over her. She looked up, trembling, to see Matteo standing there. His tuxedo was dusted with plaster, but he was entirely unharmed.
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“Get up, Anna,” he said, extending a hand to her. His voice was unnervingly calm. “My wife’s makeup is ruined. She needs a touch-up before the police take our statements. She needs to look like a terrified, innocent bride.”
Anna stared at his outstretched hand, covered in the dust of a mafia firefight, and realized she could never go back to her old life. She took his hand and let the monster pull her up.
