Chapter 2 - THE NAVY RIBBON
The grand ballroom went dead silent.
One hundred and ten of Chicago’s wealthiest elites stopped talking, their crystal champagne flutes hovering in mid-air. Charlotte Sterling stood in the center of the room, wearing a ten-thousand-dollar silk gown, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at my chest.
“She was hiding private invitations in her apron,” Charlotte announced, her voice echoing off the marble pillars. “I believe she intended to sell them to the press.”
My face burned with a heat so intense I thought I might faint. I clutched my serving tray, my knuckles turning white.
“That isn't true,” I said, my voice shaking but loud enough for the front row of guests to hear.
“Don’t lie to me, you worthless little waitress,” Charlotte hissed. She held up the stack of twelve cream-colored envelopes, waving them like a trophy. “I caught you red-handed.”
The crowd began to murmur. I saw a few society women whispering behind their hands, casting disgusted looks my way. I was a girl who lived in a cramped studio apartment above a laundromat, and I was being publicly destroyed by a woman who had never worked a day in her life.
Then, the crowd parted.
Roman DeLuca walked through the sea of guests. He wore a tailored black tuxedo that highlighted his broad shoulders, but it was his eyes that demanded absolute submission. They were dark, assessing, and completely unreadable.
The whispers died instantly. Roman didn't just command respect; he commanded fear.
“What is going on here?” Roman asked, his voice low and dangerously calm.
Charlotte immediately softened her posture, transforming into the victim. She placed a delicate hand on Roman’s chest. “Darling, I’m so sorry to ruin the mood. But I found this girl trying to steal extra invitations. I was just about to have security throw her out.”
Roman looked at me. For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw a flicker of genuine curiosity in his dark eyes. Then he looked down at the envelopes in Charlotte’s hand.
He took them from her grip.
Roman flipped through the thick, cream-colored paper. He read the names written in elegant calligraphy. Daniel Ferraro. Maria Ferraro. Tony Russo.
The men and women who had built his empire with him. The people Charlotte had claimed were “working late.”
Roman went completely still. The terrifying stillness of a predator right before it strikes.
He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice. He simply looked at his fiancée and asked her one question that silenced the entire room.
“If she stole these to sell them, Charlotte... why are they tied together with the exact same navy velvet ribbon you used for your bridesmaids’ bouquets?”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped. All the color drained from her perfectly powdered face.
The guests gasped collectively.
Roman held up the stack of envelopes. The thick navy ribbon—a custom dye exclusively ordered by the Sterling family’s event planner—was wrapped tightly around them.
“I... I don’t know,” Charlotte stammered, taking a step back. “She must have found the ribbon in the staging room and—”
“Don't insult my intelligence,” Roman interrupted, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. He untied the ribbon and opened the top envelope addressed to Daniel Ferraro.
He pulled out the invitation. But he didn't stop there. He reached deeper into the envelope and pulled out a small, handwritten sticky note.
Roman held the note up. “I personally placed a handwritten note inside Daniel’s invitation. I sealed this myself. But the wax seal on this envelope has been broken and reglued.”
Charlotte’s eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, looking for her wealthy father, Richard Sterling, to save her. But her father was frozen by the buffet table.
Roman turned to me. The anger in his eyes vanished, replaced by a fierce, piercing respect.
“Grace,” Roman said, using my name. Not ‘waitress.’ Not ‘girl.’
“Yes, Mr. DeLuca?” I breathed.
“Did you steal these?”
“No, sir. Miss Sterling ordered me to throw them in the fireplace. I refused.”
Roman nodded slowly. He turned back to the crowd. “The engagement dinner is over. Everyone, get out.”
Chaos erupted. Guests scrambled for the coat check, desperate to escape the wrath of Roman DeLuca. Charlotte burst into tears, begging Roman to listen to her, but he ignored her, signaling his security team to escort her out of the room.
As the ballroom emptied, Roman stood alone by the fireplace, staring into the flames. I quietly began picking up discarded champagne glasses, trying to make myself invisible.
“Leave the glasses, Grace,” Roman said without turning around.
I stopped.
He finally turned to face me. He looked at the stack of invitations in his hand. Then, he frowned.
“Come here,” he commanded softly.
I walked over. Roman held up the bottom envelope. It was addressed to Tony Russo, his delivery driver.
But the envelope was torn in half.
“Charlotte didn't just hide these,” Roman muttered, reaching into the torn paper. “She opened Tony's.”
Roman pulled out the contents. It wasn't an invitation.
It was a faded, yellow pawn ticket.
Roman stared at the ticket, his face turning an ashen, sickly pale.
“Mr. DeLuca?” I asked, terrified by the sudden shift in his demeanor. “What is it?”
May you like
Roman slowly looked up at me, his eyes burning with a sudden, violent panic.
“This ticket,” Roman whispered, “is for my grandfather’s silver pocket watch. I gave it to Tony ten years ago. He swore on his life he would never let it out of his sight.”
