Chapter 4 - The Gala of Wolves
Three days later, Harper found herself standing at the top of the grand marble staircase at the Drake Hotel—the very hotel where she was supposed to be serving champagne three days ago.
Tonight, she wasn't wearing a black catering uniform. She was wearing a floor-length emerald gown designed by an Italian fashion house, her dark hair swept up in an elegant arrangement, adorned with million-dollar diamond earrings from the Castelli family vault.
Beside her stood Dominic, looking imposing in a black tuxedo, his hand firmly anchored on the small of her back.
Below them in the grand ballroom, two hundred of Chicago’s most powerful figures—corrupt politicians, high-society socialites, union leaders, and underworld bosses—were gathered for the annual Civic Trust Charity Gala.
“Keep your chin up,” Dominic murmured near her ear as they began their descent down the stairs. “Every eye in this room is searching for a sign of weakness. Don't give it to them.”
“I’m a caterer, Dominic,” Harper whispered back, clutching his arm tightly. “I’m used to avoiding people’s eyes, not commanding them.”
“You are my future wife,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Act like you own the room, because after tonight, you will.”
As they reached the floor, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Whispers rippled through the room.
“Is that her?” “The Russo girl? Her father’s a union steward!” “Dominic Castelli bound himself to the unions?” “Look at that ring... it’s the Castelli Diamond!”
Dominic guided her through the crowd with absolute authority, acknowledging greetings from federal judges and councilmen with brief, commanding nods.
Suddenly, a smooth, mocking voice cut through the ambient noise of the orchestra.
“Don Castelli. And his lovely new treasure.”
Lorenzo Marino stepped out from a circle of associates, holding a glass of scotch. Beside him stood his eldest son, Paulo—a heavy-set man with cruel eyes and a reputation for extreme violence.
“Lorenzo,” Dominic said, his grip on Harper’s waist tightening slightly.
Paulo Marino stepped forward, his eyes scanning Harper’s dress with insolent vulgarity. “Quite an upgrade from lifting dirty dinner plates, wouldn't you say, Miss Russo? My men told me you were very comfortable in Dominic’s bed the other morning.”
The temperature around Dominic dropped to sub-zero instantly.
Before anyone could react, Dominic moved with terrifying speed. He grabbed Paulo by the throat, slamming him hard against a marble pillar. The glass of scotch shattered on the floor.
Gasping for air, Paulo clawed at Dominic’s massive arm, but Dominic’s grip was iron.
“Speak to my fiancée like that again,” Dominic whispered, his amber eyes glowing with lethal fury, “and I will tear your tongue out of your head and feed it to the fish in the river. Do you understand me?”
Lorenzo Marino stepped forward, his hands raised, his face pale. “Dominic! Easy! My son lacks manners—”
“Your son lacks a brain,” Dominic spat, releasing Paulo, who crumpled to the floor coughing hysterically.
The entire ballroom went dead silent. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Dominic turned back to Harper, taking her hand gently, completely ignoring the stunned crowd surrounding them.
“Are you alright, my love?” he asked softly, his tone shifting so drastically from violence to tenderness that it shocked everyone watching.
Harper looked at Paulo on the floor, then up into Dominic’s dark, protective gaze. She realized in that moment that while Dominic Castelli was a monster to the world, he was a wall of pure iron between her and the wolves.
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“I’m fine, Dominic,” she said clearly, her voice echoing across the silent ballroom. “Let’s get a drink.”
A slow, prideful smile spread across Dominic’s face. He tucked her hand under his arm and led her toward the bar, leaving the Marino family humiliated in front of the entire city elite.
