Chapter 3 - The Wolves at the Feast
The news of Lucian Falcone’s sudden marriage shook the high society and underworld of Chicago like a massive earthquake.
The lowborn, unknown waitress from a dirty basement was now the mistress of the grandest estate in the Midwest.
Two weeks after signing the contract, Emma found herself standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror in the master suite of the Falcone mansion. She wore a breath-taking, emerald-green silk evening gown designed in Paris. Diamonds glittered around her neck—gifts from Eleanor Falcone, who had welcomed Emma with open arms and tears of joy.
Yet, despite the luxury, Emma felt like a lamb put on display in a gilded cage.
Tonight was the Annual Falcone Syndicate Gala—a private, ultra-secure gathering held at the high-end Drake Hotel ballroom. It was where legitimate corporate business leaders mixed with the brutal Underbosses of the Syndicate.
Lucian stepped into her dressing room, wearing a flawless black tuxedo. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her. For a split second, the cold mask he always wore slipped, revealing a look of pure, unadulterated awe.
Emma looked magnificent. Her dark hair was styled in an elegant updo, framing her soft, lovely features. But what struck Lucian most was her posture—she didn't wear the jewelry like a puppet; she carried herself with a quiet, regal grace that money couldn't buy.
Lucian cleared his throat, regaining his composure. He walked over and offered her his arm.
“Tonight will be dangerous,” Lucian warned quietly. “The wolves will test you. They will try to humiliate you, to see if you crack. My cousin Lorenzo will be there, alongside the Lombardi cartel representatives. Do not show weakness.”
Emma looked at her reflection, then up at Lucian’s stern face. She reached out and lightly touched his arm. “I’ve spent my whole life being treated like dirt by people who thought they were better than me, Lucian. I survived poverty. I survived starvation. Your socialites don't scare me.”
Lucian’s lips twitched upward. “Good. Then let us feed you to the wolves.”
When Lucian and Emma entered the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel, the music seemed to die down. Hundreds of eyes turned toward them. Whispers spread like poison through the crowd.
“That’s her?”
“The waitress?”
“She was scrubbing floors two weeks ago!”
Among the crowd stood Bianca Thorne—the wealthy heiress who had thrown the pasta at Eleanor—wearing a red gown, her eyes burning with pure jealousy and rage. Beside her stood Lorenzo Falcone, Lucian’s dangerous, snake-like cousin. Lorenzo was a man in his late thirties with sharp, oily features, slicked-back hair, and a ruthless reputation for torture.
Lucian guided Emma through the crowd, introducing her to board members and city officials. Emma held her head high, speaking with warmth, intelligence, and poise. She didn't pretend to be an heiress; when asked about her background, she answered truthfully that she had worked hard every day of her life, earning genuine respect from several elderly board members who were sick of spoiled socialites.
However, as Lucian stepped away for five minutes to speak with an Underboss regarding a shipping dispute at the docks, Lorenzo and Bianca seized their moment.
They cornered Emma near the champagne fountain.
“Well, well,” Lorenzo sneered, his dark eyes scanning Emma with predatory distaste. “The alley cat found her way into the palace. Tell me, sweetheart, how much did you charge my cousin to play the dutiful bride? Or did you just sell your body for a decent pair of shoes?”
Bianca smirked, taking a glass of red wine from a waiter’s tray. “Careful, Lorenzo. Don't touch her dress. It’s worth more than her entire family tree. It’s pathetic, really. Lucian could have had royalty, and instead, he picked up trash from the street.”
Emma turned slowly to face them. She didn't flinch. She didn't cry. She stood tall, her eyes cold as ice.
“Lorenzo, isn't it?” Emma said, her voice perfectly pitched so the surrounding guests could hear. “It’s interesting you speak of trash, considering you’ve been skimming off the Falcone pension funds for three years to cover your illegal gambling debts in Macau.”
Lorenzo’s smile vanished instantly. His face turned pale, then dark red. “What did you say?”
Emma had spent her two weeks at the estate not just buying dresses, but studying the ledger files Lucian left in his private study. She possessed an uncanny memory for numbers.
“And you, Bianca,” Emma said, turning her icy gaze to the socialite. “The last time I saw you, you were throwing food at an elderly woman because you thought no one was watching. You think your father’s money makes you classy? Class isn't bought, Miss Thorne. It’s shown. And right now, you look remarkably cheap.”
A sharp gasp went around the crowd of listening elites. Bianca’s face burned with humiliation. Outraged, Bianca raised her glass of red wine, intending to splash it straight onto Emma’s emerald dress.
Snap!
Before Bianca’s arm could move an inch, a large, steel-like hand clamped around her wrist.
Lucian appeared like a shadow, his presence instantly suffocating the room. He squeezed Bianca’s wrist just hard enough to make her drop the glass. It shattered on the marble floor—a dramatic echoing crash.
“Touch my wife again,” Lucian whispered, his voice dangerously low, dripping with lethal threat, “and I will ensure your family’s firm is bankrupt by midnight.”
Bianca squeaked in terror, backing away rapidly.
Lucian then turned his piercing gaze to Lorenzo. “And as for you, cousin... we will discuss your Macau accounts at the Syndicate table tomorrow morning. Get out of my sight.”
Lorenzo glared at Lucian with murderous hatred, but he knew better than to strike now. He backed away into the crowd, muttering dark curses.
Lucian turned to Emma. He looked at her not with suspicion, but with a sudden, deep spark of admiration. He reached out, gently wiping a tiny spot of spilled champagne from her wrist.
“Where did you learn about Lorenzo’s Macau accounts?” Lucian murmured.
“I read your desk ledgers while you were asleep,” Emma said softly, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. “I told you, Lucian. I’m not a helpless pawn.”
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For the first time since Emma had met him, Lucian Falcone genuinely smiled. It transformed his harsh, cold face into something striking, handsome, and breathtakingly human.
“No,” Lucian whispered, stepping closer to her. “You are definitely not a pawn, Emma. You might just be the Queen.”
