Chapter 5 - The Trap at the Gala
Two weeks later, the annual New York Cultural Heritage Gala was held at the Plaza Hotel.
It was the biggest high-society event of the winter—a night where politicians, billionaires, and syndicate bosses gathered in tuxedos to pretend they were civilized.
Dante had initially planned to go alone, but two days before the event, he walked into the kitchen with a large, black velvet box.
Mara was decorating a gingerbread house with Lena.
“What’s this?” Mara asked, wiping her hands on a towel.
Dante opened the box. Inside lay a breathtaking evening gown made of deep emerald-green silk, tailored specifically to fit Mara’s voluptuous curves, along with a matching diamond necklace.
“You are coming with me,” Dante said smoothly.
Mara stared at the gown, her jaw dropping. “Dante... I don't do galas. I do flour, butter, and comfortable shoes. High society people look at a woman my size like I’m an invasive species.”
Dante walked over, setting his hands on her waist, pulling her close while Lena giggled behind them.
“High society people,” Dante whispered against her ear, “are going to spend the entire night staring at the most beautiful woman in New York. And I want them to know you are with me.”
On the night of the gala, the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was blinding with crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, and velvet drapes.
When Dante Moretti entered the room with Mara Bell on his arm, the chatter of three hundred wealthy guests died down to a sudden, stunned whisper.
Mara looked stunning. The emerald gown hugged her wide hips and full bust perfectly, flowing down to the floor like liquid jewel, while her dark hair was pinned up in elegant curls.
She didn't look like a nanny. She didn't look like a baker from Queens. She looked like a queen standing beside an emperor.
Dante walked with his head held high, his hand resting securely on the small of her back, marking her as his in front of the entire city.
However, across the ballroom, sitting at a VIP table reserved for the Valenti family, Carmine Valenti and his son Julian watched them with cold, calculated hatred.
Carmine was a withered old man with pale skin and yellowed eyes, sitting in a wheelchair.
“So,” Carmine rasped, watching Mara sip champagne beside Dante. “That is the fat girl who made the Moretti child laugh.”
“She’s a nobody from Queens,” Julian sneered. “A baker.”
“A nobody,” Carmine corrected, his yellow eyes narrowing, “who has become Dante Moretti’s heart. He destroyed our warehouse deal because of her. He threatens us because he feels invincible again.”
Carmine leaned toward his son, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper.
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“Dante thinks his child is safe in his penthouse,” Carmine murmured. “He thinks he is protected here tonight. Take the men. Initiate the plan at the estate. Let us see how powerful Dante Moretti feels when both his women are destroyed in a single night.”
Julian grinned—a dark, cruel expression—and quietly slipped out the side exit of the ballroom.
