Chapter 7 - The Gala of Snakes
Three weeks passed in a blur of intense, unspoken romance and heightened security.
The villa on the island became a haven. Away from the dark politics of the city, Vincent transformed. He spent his afternoons on the lawn playing tag with Maisie and Rosie, his deep, rumbling laugh echoing across the water—a sound the staff admitted they had never heard in the eight years they had worked for him.
At night, after the girls were asleep, Vincent would come to my room. We spent hours talking by the fireplace—not about the syndicate or his vast empire, but about his childhood, my dreams of opening an orphanage, and the quiet life he wished he could build once the war was finally over.
However, the peace was temporary.
To smoke out the traitor within his ranks, Vincent organized the annual Moretti Charity Gala at the grand Metropolitan Hotel in downtown Manhattan—a high-society event attended by every powerful politician, judge, and syndicate boss in the tristate area.
"You don't have to go, Elise," Vincent said as we stood in his private dressing room on the night of the gala. He looked breathtakingly handsome in a midnight-blue velvet tuxedo, adjusting his onyx cufflinks.
"I am going," I said firmly, smoothing down the skirt of my emerald-green silk gown—a gift Vincent had ordered directly from Paris. "The girls are safe here with Frank and a platoon of guards. You need someone beside you tonight who isn't wearing a gun."
Vincent turned to look at me, his gaze sweeping over the fitted gown, his gray eyes darkening with fierce pride. He walked over, unboxing a velvet velvet case containing a breathtaking diamond necklace, resting the heavy ice against my collarbone and clasping it behind my neck.
"You look like a queen," he whispered into my ear, his lips brushing against my throat. "My queen."
An hour later, we arrived at the Metropolitan Hotel under heavy armed escort.
The grand ballroom was a spectacle of sparkling crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, and hundreds of guests in formal attire. Flashes from news cameras illuminated the red carpet as Vincent walked into the hall with me on his arm, sending a visible shockwave through the room.
For six months, society believed Vincent Moretti was a broken recluse. Seeing him step into the spotlight, looking more powerful and commanding than ever, with a stunning new woman at his side, sent whispers rippling through the crowd like wildfire.
As we moved through the room, making polite conversation with city officials, I noticed Dante Falcone standing near the VIP bar, sipping scotch with a short, rotund man with silver hair—Don Alberto Falcone, the head of the rival family.
Dante’s eyes locked onto us. He whispered something to Alberto before stepping away from the bar and walking toward us with a smooth, predatory smile.
"Vincent," Dante said, bowing his head slightly. "A splendid turnout. And Miss Navarro... you look extraordinary tonight."
"Dante," Vincent replied coldly. "Where is the accounting report for the harbor expansion I requested?"
"It's being processed, Boss," Dante said lightly. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a snake-like hiss. "Though I wonder if you should be focusing on harbor reports when your internal security is so... porous."
Vincent’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice. "What are you talking about?"
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Dante pulled a silver flash drive from his pocket, tossing it casually into Vincent’s champagne glass.
"Don Alberto has just finalized the acquisition of three of your major shipping lines, Vincent," Dante sneered, revealing his true allegiance at last. "The council voted an hour ago to remove you as head of the syndicate. You're finished. And as for your pretty nanny..." Dante’s eyes flashed with venom as he looked at me. "...she won't survive the ride back to the island."
