Chapter 3: The Gala of Glass
The ballroom of the Palazzo Serbelloni was a testament to the vanity of the European elite. Crystal chandeliers, gold-leaf molding, and a crowd of people who held power like they held their champagne—with a grip that could crush.
Bridget wore a simple, dark green velvet gown that Dante had ordered from a boutique in the city. It fit her perfectly, hugging her frame in a way that made her feel elegant for the first time in her life. She looked like she belonged, even if she felt like a cat in a room full of Dobermans.
Dante was the center of gravity. Every move he made was watched, every word he spoke analyzed. He looked devastating in a tuxedo, the kind of man who belonged in a high-stakes thriller or a history book.
"Keep close," he commanded, his hand resting firmly on the small of her back.
As they moved through the crowd, Bridget’s eyes were darting everywhere. She wasn't looking at the celebrities or the jewelry; she was looking at the people in the corners. She saw the men in tailored suits whispering behind velvet curtains; she saw the nervous glances toward the security details; she saw the patterns of power.
Then, she saw it.
Near the back terrace, her uncle, Lorenzo Moretti, was handing a small, encrypted drive to a man Bridget recognized from the news—the head of a rival syndicate that had been encroaching on Dante’s territory for years.
Bridget leaned into Dante’s side. "Terrace. Ten o'clock. Red tie. Lorenzo is selling the shipping manifest codes."
Dante didn't blink. He didn't even turn his head. He simply nodded, his hand tightening on her waist. "Go to the bathroom. Get out of the main hall. Do not come out until I find you."
"But—"
"Bridget. Go."
She turned and vanished into the crowd, her heart pounding. She slipped into a side corridor, but as she reached for the handle of a private lounge, a hand clamped over her mouth.
She was dragged into the dark.
"So," a voice rasped in her ear. "The little auditor who couldn't keep her nose out of the books."
It was the man in the red tie.
He held her against the wall, his knife pressing into the fabric of her velvet gown. "Dante has a soft spot for you. It’s disgusting, really. A man like that, having a pet secretary."
"I'm not a pet," Bridget gasped, her brain screaming for a plan. "I'm a forensic accountant. And you're currently standing on a rug that I know for a fact was bought with embezzled funds."
The man laughed, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second in his surprise.
That was all Bridget needed. She did what she did best: she tripped. She threw her entire body weight forward, slamming her heel directly into his instep and head-butting him with the force of a woman who had once broken her own nose sneezing.
He groaned, doubling over.
Bridget didn't wait. She grabbed a heavy, antique statuette from the side table and swung it with both hands, connecting with his temple. He went down like a sack of grain.
May you like
She stood over him, panting, her hair a mess, her gown torn. She looked at her hands. She hadn't bled. She hadn't cried.
"Very reasonable," she whispered to the unconscious man. "No bleeding."
